s^^£. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


vi, 


I 


^ 


\. 


T|U? 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL. 


WITH  A  MEMOIR. 


rOUBTH  EDITION,   OREATLT  ENIAEGED. 


NEW  YORK : 

JAMES  MILLER,  PUBLISHER, 

779  BROADWAY. 


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LINES 

WUTTTEN    AFTER 'a  VISIT  TO  THE  GKATE  OP  MT  FRIEHD, 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL, 

NOVEMBEK,   1847. 

Plack  we  a  stone  at  his  head  and  his  feet ; 
Sprinkle  his  sward  with  the  small  flowers  sweet; 
Piously  hallow  the  Poet's  retreat ! 

Ever  approvingly, 

Ever  most  lovingly, 
Turned  he  to  Nature,  a  worshipper  meet. 

Harm  not  the  thorn  which  grows  at  his  head  ; 
Odorous  honors  its  blossoms  will  shed, 
Grateful  to  him,  early  summoned,  who  sped 

Hence,  not  unwillingly — 

For  he  felt  thrillingly— 
To  rest  his  poor  heart  'mong  the  low-lying  dead. 

Dearer  to  him  than  the  deep  Minster  bell, 
Winds  of  sad  cadence,  at  midnight,  will  swell, 
Vocal  with  sorrows  he  knoweth  too  well, 

Who,  for  the  early  day. 

Plaining  this  roundelay, 
Might  his  own  fate  from  a  brother's  foretell. 


D 


Worldly  ones  treading  this  terrace  of  graves, 
Grudge  not  the  minstrel  the  httle  he  craves, 
When  o'er  the  snow-mound  the  winter-blast  raves- 
Tears — which  devotedly, 
Though  all  unnotedly. 
Flow  from  their  spring,  in  the  soul's  silent  caves. 


487B20 

ENGLISH 


■?1  LINES. 

Dreamers  of  noble  tlioughts,  raise  Mm  a  shrine, 
Graced  -with  the  beauty  which  lives  in  his  line ; 
Strew  with  pale  flow'rets,  when  pensive  moons  shine. 

His  grassy  covering, 

AVhere  spirits  hovering, 
Chant,  for  his  requiem,  music  divine. 

Not  as  a  record  he  lacketh  a  stone ! 

Pay  a  light  debt  to  the  singer  we've  known — 

Proof  that  our  love  for  his  name  hath  not  flown 

With  the  frame  perishing — 

That  we  are  cherishing 
Feelings  akin  to  the  lost  Poet's  own. 

William  Kennedy. 


TO 

LADY    CAMPBELL, 

THIS  NEW  AND   ENLARGED   EDITION 

OF   THE    POEMS    OF    HER    KINSMAN, 

WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL, 

IS  EESPECTFDLLT   DEDICATED. 


CONTENTS. 


FIlSH 

Memoir 1^ 

POEMS. 

The  Battle-flag  of  Signrd 61 

The  Wooing  Song  of  Jarl  Egill  Skallagrim 67 

The  Sword  Chant  of  Thors'tein  Raudi 72 

Jeanie  Morrison '^5 

My  Heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie 78 

The  Madman's  Love 80 

Halbert  the  Grim 91 

True  Love's  Dirge 9* 

The  Demon  Lady 97 

Zara 99 

Onglou's  Onslaught 101 

Elfinland  Wud 104 

Midnight  and  Moonshine 108 

The  Water!  the  Water! 112 

Three  Fanciful  Supposes 114 

A  Caveat  to  the  Wind Ho 

What  is  Glorv?     What  is  Fame? 117 

The  Solemn  "Song  of  a  Eighteous  Hearte 118 

Melancholye 121 

I  am  not  sad 123 

^;^jB»u*Jhe  Joys  of  the  Wilderness 125 

A  Solemn  Conceit 126 

The  Expatriated 128 

Facts  from  Fairv-Land 121» 

Certain  Pleasant  Verses  to  the  Lady  of  my  Heart. . .  131 

Beneath  a  Placid  Brow 132 

The  Covenanters'  Battle-Chant 134 


X  CONTENTS. 

P\OS 

Tim  the  Tacket 135 

The  Witches'  Joys 138 

A  Sabbath  Summer  Noon HI 

A  Monody 145 

They  come !  the  Merry  Summer  Months 148 

.  Change  sweepeth  over  all 150 

0,  Wae  be  to  the  Orders 151 

Wearie's  Well 153 

Song  of  the  Danish  Sea-king 154 

The  Cavalier's  Song 156 

The  Merrv  Gallant 156 

The  Knight's  Song 157 

The  Trooper's  Ditty 159 

He  is  gone !     He  is  gone ! 160 

The  Forester's  Carol 161 

Jlav  Morn  Song 162 

The  Bloom  hath  fled  thy  Cheek,  Mary 163 

In  the  Quiet  and  Solemn  Night 165 

The  Voice  of  Love ^ 166 

Away !  Away !  0.  do  not  say 167 

0  Agony !  keen  Agony 168 

The  Serenade 168 

Could  Love  impart 170 

The  Parting 172 

Love's  Diet 173 

The  Midnight  Wind 173 

The  Waithman's  Wail 174 

The  Troubadour's  Lament 177 

When  I  beneath  the  cold,  red  Earth  am  sleeping 179 

Spirits  of  Light !     Spirits  of  Shade ! 180 

The  Crusader's  Farewell 185 

The  Midnight  Lamp 185 

Come  down,  ye  Spirits ! 186 

Ding  dong! 187 

Clerke  Richard  and  Maid  Margaret 189 

Lord  Archibald:  a  Ballad 191 

And  have  I  gazed  ? 196 

Siie  is  not  dend 197 

Sweet  Earlsburn,  blithe  Earlsburn 199 

liegone,  begone,  thou  truant  Tear 200 

O,  babble  not  to  me,  gray  Eild 201 

Sonnet:  the  Patriot's  Death 201 

Sonnet:  pale  Daughter  of  the  Night 202 

Sonnet:  the  Hand's  wild  Grasp 203 

Sonnet:  silvery  Hairs 203 

Lady  Margaret:  a  Ballad 204 


CONTENTS.  XI 

rOSTIITJMOUS  POEMS. 

PAQB 

O  that  this  v^eary  War  of  Life ! 211 

Clioice  of  Death 212 

Like  Mist  on  a  Mountain-Top,  broken  and  gray 213 

Sons 214 

True  Woman 21S 

Friendship  and  Love 216 

And  hae  ve  seen  my  ain  true  Luve? 217 

The  spell-bound  Knight 218 

Cruxtoun    Castle 219 

Roland  and  Rosabelle 224 

Son? 226 

For  blither  Fields  and  braver  Bowers 227 

Hope  and  Love 228 

Songe  of  the  Schippe 229 

He  stood  alone 230 

Cupid's  Banishmente 231 

The  Ship  of  the  Desert 232 

The  Poet's  Wish 233 

Isabelle 234 

What  is  this  World  to  Me? 2.35 

To  a  Lady's  Bonnet 236 

The  Wanderer 236 

Song 2.38 

The  Hunter's  Well 239 

It  deeplv  wounds  the  trusting  Heart 240 

The  Ett'in  O'Sillarwood 241 

Like  a  worn  giav-haired  Mariner 247 

The  Lav  of  Geo"£Froi  Rudel 248 

Envie  /. 248 

Love's  Tokens 249 

0  say  not  pure  Affections  change ! 250 

The  Rose  and  the  fair  Lilye 251 

Young  Love 252 

To  the  Tempest 253 

Goe  deed  wi'  Smylis  the  Cheek ! 254 

The  Poet's  Destiny 256 

1  met  wi'  her  I  luved  Yestreen 256 

To  the  Ladv  of  my  Heart 257 

The  fause  Ladye 258 

My  ain  Countrie 259 

To  a  Friend  at  parting 260 

I  plucked  the  Berry 262 

Song 262 

To  *  *  *  * 263 

The  Knight's  Requiem 264 


Xll  CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

The  Rocky  Islet 266 

The  Past  and  the  Future 266 

0,  turn  from  me  those  radiant  Eyes ! 267 

Oh  think  nae  mair  o'  me,  sweet  May 268 

The  love-lorn  Knight  and  the  Damsel  pitiless 269 

Love  in  Workllvnesse 270 

A  Night  Vision". 272 

This  is  no  Solitude 277 

The  lone  Thorn 277 

The  slavne  Menstrel 278 

The  JleVmaiden. . . '. 280 

Song 281 

The  lean  Lover 283 

Affectest  thou  the  Pleasui-es  of  the  Shade? 284 

Music 284 

The  shipwrecked  Lover 285 

Hollo,  my  Fancy ! 287 

Love's  Potencie 295 

Life 296 

Superstition 296 

Ye  vernal  Hours ! ' 299 

Come,  thou  bright  Spirit ! 299 

Lavs  of  the  lang  bein  Kittcrs 301 

"The  Hitters  ride  forth 301 

Lay  of  the  broken-hearted  and  hope-bereaved  Men  802 

Dream  of  Life's  early  Day,  farewell  forever 804 

The  Ritters  ride  Home 306 


MEMOIR 


OF 


WILLLA3I    MOTHERWELL. 


MEMOIK. 


William  Motherwell  was  born  at  Glasgow, 
on  the  13th  day  of  October,  1797*  He  was  the 
third  son  of  William  Motherwell,  a  native  of  Stir- 
lingshire, who  settled  in  that  city  about  the  year 
1792,  where  he  followed  the  business  of  an  iron- 
monger.! His  mother's  name  was  Elizabeth  Bar- 
net,  the  daughter  of  William  Barnet,  a  respectable 
farmer  in  the  parish  of  Auchterarder,  in  Perth- 
shire, who,  at  her  father's  death,  inherited  a  little 
fortune  of  two  thousand  pounds.  Early  in  the 
present  century,  his  father  removed  with  his  family 
to  Edinburgh,  Avhere  his  son  was  placed  under  the 
charge  of  Mr.  William  Lennie,  an  eminent  teacher 
of  English  in  that  city,  and  the  author  of  several 
useful  and  popular  school-books ;  and  it  was  while 
attending  this  school  that  the  boy  met  "  Jeanie 
Morrison,"  a  mild  and  bashful  girl,  wliose  name  he 
afterwards  immortalized,  and  of  Avhose  gentle  na- 
ture he  retained  through  life  the  most  pleasing 
recollections.  The  first  draught  of  his  poem  is 
said  to  have  been  made  at  fourteen  years  of  age, 
and,  as  he  has  himself  recorded,  they  never  met 

*  The  house  in  •which  this  event  took  place  was  situated  at  the 
south  corner  of  College  Street,  fronting  High  Street. 

t  Mr.  Motherwell's  family  consisted  of  three  sons, — David,  John 
and  William, — and  three  daughters, — Margaret,  Amelia,  and  Eliz- 
abeth,— of  whom  liis  eldest  daughter,  Margaret,  alone  survives. 


16  MEMOIR. 

after  leaving  school*  As  the  reader  cannot  fail 
to  be  gratified  by  an  account  of  the  poet's  juvenile 
history,  I  transcnbe  the  Ibllowing  details,  which 
have  been  obligingly  communicated  to  the  pub- 
lisher by  ]Mr.  Lennie  himself: — 

"  William  Motherwell  entered  my  school,  then 
kept  at  No.  8  Ci-ichton  Street,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  George  Square  on  the  24th  of  April,  1805,  and 
left  it  for  the  High  School  here  on  the  1st  day  of 
October,  1808.  He  was  between  seven  and  eight 
years  old  when  he  joined,  an  open-faced,  firm,  and 
cheerful-looking  boy.  He  began  at  the  alphabet, 
and  though  he  did  not  at  first  display  any  uncom- 
mon ability,  his  mind  soon  opened  up,  and  as  he 
advanced  in  his  education  he  speedily  manifested  a 
superior  capacity,  and  ultimately  became  the  best 
scholar  in  the  school;  yet  he  never  showed  any  of 
that  petulant  or  supercilious  bearing  which  some 
children  discover  who  see  themselves  taken  notice 
of  for  the  quickness  of  their  parts ;  he  was,  on  the 
contrary,  kind  and  accommodating,  always  ready 
to  help  those  who  applied  to  him  for  assistance, 
and  a  first-rate  hand  at  carrying  on  sport  durinor 
the  hours  of  recreation.  Besides  acquiring  a  fair 
knowledge  of  geography,  which  was  taught  in  the 
higher  classes,  and  becoming  well  acquainted  with 
the  principles  of  English  grammar,  he,  during  the 
last  twelve  or  eighteen  months  of  his  attendance 
at  my  school,  devoted  two  separate  hours  (kily  to 
arithmetic  and  writing,  in  the  latter  of  which  es- 
pecially he  excelled.  In  the  course  of  a  single 
year,  he  wrote  ap  excellent  small,  distinct  hand ; 
8o  good,  indeed,  was  it,  that  few  are  able  to  do  any 
thing  like  it,  even  after  several  years'  practice.  He 
also  filled  up  skeleton  maps  so  neatly,  that  at  first 

•  0  dear,  dear  .Teanie  Morrison,  • 

Sinre  we  were  Hindered  young, 
I've  never  neen  your  fare,  nor  tieard 
The  music  o'  your  tongue. 


MEMOIR.  17 

siglit  thej  mi;]rlit  have  been  mistaken  for  copper- 
plate engravings.  During  the  hist  year  he  Ava9 
■with  nu;,  '  "Wilson's  Sentimental  Scenes' were  in- 
troduced into  the  upper  classes.  Tiie  reading  of 
these  sketches  delighted  him  exceedingly  ;  and  he 
entered  so  completely  into  the  spirit  of  the  pieces, 
that  he  made  the  charactei-s  his  own,  and  appeared 
to  be  a  Roscius  in  miniature,  a  thing  I  have  never 
found  a  boy  to  do  but  himself. 

"Jane  (Jeanie)  Morrison  was  the  daughter  of 
one  of  the  most  respectable  brewers  and  corn- 
factors  then  in  Alloa.  She  came  to  Edinburgh  to 
finish  her  education,  and  was  in  my  school  with 
Wilham  Motherwell  during  the  last  year  of  his 
course.  She  was  about  the  same  age  with  himself, 
a  pretty  girl,  and  of  good  capacity.  Her  hair  was 
of  a  lightish  brown,  approaching  to  fair;  her  eyes 
were  dark,  and  had  a  sweet  and  gentle  expression  ; 
her  temper  was  mild,  and  her  manners  unassum- 
ing. Her  dress  was  also  neat  and  tidy.  In  ^vinter, 
she  wore  a  pale-blue  pelisse,  then  the  fashionable 
color,  and  a  light-colored  beaver  with  a  feather. 
She  made  a  great  impression  on  young  Mother- 
well, and  that  it  was  permanent  his  beautiful  ballad 
shows.  At  the  end  of  the  season  she  returned  to 
her  parents  at  .\lloa,  with  whom  she  resided  till 
the  time  of  her  marriage.  She  is  now  a  widow, 
with  a  family  of  three  children,  all  of  whom  are 
grown  up,  and,  I  believe,  doing  well."  * 

It  would  appear  from  this,  that  Motherwell  was 
entered  in  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh  as  early 


*  I  had  the  plea.»ure  of  a  slight  acquaintance  witli  this  lady  ia 
Itfter  life,  as  Mrs.  Murdoch.  Iler  husband  wius  a  respectable  mer- 
chant in  this  city,  and  died  about  the  j-car  1828.  She  was,  when 
1  knew  her,  a  very  elegant  woman  in  her  personal  appearance, 
and  seemed  to  have  preserved  those  gentle  and  agreeable  man- 
ners for  which  she  had  been  distinguished  in  girlhood  ;  but  it 
is  proper  to  remark,  that  she  was  wholly  unconscious  of  the 
ardent  interest  which  she  had  excited  in  the  mind  of  her  boyislj 
admirer. 

2 


18  MEMOIK 

as  the  year  1808 ;  but  his  attendance  at  that  ex- 
cellent institution  could  not  have  exceeded  a  few 
months,  as  1  find  that  he  was  placed  early  in  1809 
at  the  Grammar  School  of  Paisley,  theu  superin- 
tended by  the  late  Mr.  John  Petldie.  His  father 
had  not  prospered  in  Edinburgh,  and,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  enibarrasseil  state  of  his  allairs,  his 
son  William  was  consigned  to  the  care  of  his  brother, 
Mr.  John  ^lotherwell,  a  respectable  iron-founder  in 
Paisley.  The  curriculum  at  the  Paisley  Grannnar 
School  extended  over  five  years,  and  if  William 
Motherwell  completed  it,  he  must  have  enjoyed 
the  full  measure  of  elementary  classical  instruction, 
including,  in  the  fifth  year,  the  rudiments  of  Greek, 
which  it  was  then  customary  to  give  to  boys  in 
Scotland.  One  of  his  surviving  school  compan- 
ions *  informs  me  that,  in  conjunction  with  the  late 
^Ir.  William  Bain,  advocate,  and  a  ^Ir.  Lymburn, 
also  deceased,  he  was  a  dux  boy,  and  there  seems 
to  be  no  reason  to  doubt,  that  he  exhibited  the 
same  quickness  of  apprehension  and  readiness  of 
parti)  in  the  Paisley  Acatlcmy  which  he  had  dis- 
played in  other  schools;  but  as  his  tastes  were 
never  scholastic,  and  as  his  knowledge  of  the  dead 
tongues  was  always  limited,  the  presumption  is, 
that  he  followed  the  prominent  bias  of  his  mind, 
and  devoted  to  works  of  imagination  the  hours 
that  should  have  been  given  to  school  exercises. 
I  am  fortified  in  this  belief  by  the  recollections  of 
i\lr.  Crawford,  who  says,  "  \Vhat  Motherwell  wuo 
most  remarkable  for,  was  his  gift  of  spinning  long 
yarns  about  castles,  and  robbers,  and  strange,  out- 
of-the-way  adventures,  with  which,  while  Mr.  Ped- 
dle imagined  he  was  assisting  his  class-leliows  with 
their  lessons,  he  would  entertain  tiiem  ibr  hours, 
day  after  day,  like  some  of  the  famous  story-tellers 
in  the  Arabian  Nights  ;  and  these  stories  were  re- 

•  Mr.  John  Crawford,  writer  in  Paisley. 


MEMOIR.  19 

tailed  at  second-hand,  by  his  class-fellows,  to  those 
wlio  had  not  the  privilege  of  hearing  them  from 
the  author  himself." 

In  the  year  1811,  his  mother  died  at  Edinburgh, 
and  after  tliat  melancholy  evant,  his  t'ather,  accoin- 

t)anied  by  his  d4ughter,  Amelia,  retired  to  the  vil- 
age  of  Kilsyth,  in  Stirlingshire,  where  he  dwelt  till 
his  death,  which  occurred  in  February,  1827. 

The  history  of  his  ancestors  possesses  considera- 
ble interest.  In  a  letter  with  which  1  have  been 
favored  by  my  venerable  and  accom[)lished  friend, 
!Mr.  Sheriir  Campbell,  of  Paisley,  they  are  tiius 
spoken  of: — 

"  Ot"  his  family  I  had  occasion  to  learn  some- 
thing, in  the  course  of  a  judicial  inquiry  concern- 
ing the  succession  of  David  JMotherwell,  his  uncle, 
upwards  of  thirty  years  ago.  That  David  ^lother- 
vvell  died  possessed  of  a  small  estate  on  the  banks 
of  the  Carron,  in  the  Harony  of  Dundaff",  in  Stir- 
lingshire, which,  according  to  what  I  found  to  be  the 
trailition  of  the  neighborhood,  supported,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  by  the  title-deeds  of  the  pro]>eity,  which 
1  saw,  had  been  in  tlie  possession  of  thirteen  gene- 
rations of  the  same  family,  all  bearing  the  same 
name  of  David,  with  the  surname  variously  spelled  ; 
being  at  one  time  Moderville,  at  another  ]\Ioderell, 
and  latterly  ^Motherwell.  His  uncle,  Alexander, 
set  aside  David's  deed  of  settlement,  and  sold  the 
property  to  his  younger  brother  John,  an  extensive 
iron-monger  in  Paisley,  who  left  it  to  trustees  for 
behoof  of  iiis  daughter." 

The  estate  here  spoken  of  was  called  Muirmill, 
and  the  name  at  once  indicates  the  calling  of  the 
proprietors.  They  were  the  hereditary  millers  of 
Dundaff,  and  are  so  designated  in  a  confirmatory 
charter  granted  in  favor  of  the  then  possessor  by 
James  Graham,  the  celebrated  Marc^uis  of  Mon- 
trose, in  1G42,  as  will  be  seen  by  the  following 
short  extract  from  that  document.      It  is  to   be 


20  MEMOIR. 

obserk'ed,  that  this  extract  hns  reference  to  "  ail 
instrument  of  seisin,"  dated  2f)th  June,  1629,  in  fa- 
vor of  "  David  Moderell,  in  Spittal,*  and  Isabella 
Small,  Ills  wife,  proceeding  on  a  charter  granted 
by  James,  Earl  of  Montrose,  Lord  Graham  and 
Mugdock,  of  the  lands  of  all  and  whole,  that  pen- 
dicle of  land  called  Spittal,"  &c.  The  deed  of 
1G42,  then,  confirms  the  previous  grant  of  1629  to 

"  William  Modrell,  miller,  at  Dundaff,  callit  the 
Muir  Mill,  ,t  his  spouse,  and  David  Modrell, 

their  son,  on  the  other  part,  (of  date  at  Drum- 
phad,  25th  April,  1629  years,)  whereby,  with  con- 
sent aforesaid,  set  in  feu  farm  to  the  said  William 
Modrell,  and  his  spouse  above  named,  and  the 
langest  liver  of  them  twa,  in  life-rent ;  and  to  Da- 
vid Modrell,  tlieir  son,  all  and  liaill,  the  said  mill, 
mill  lands,  anil  multures,  &c.,  and  pasturage  for 
eight  ky,  all  lying  within  the  barony  of  Dundaff, 
and  shire  of  Stirling."J 

U])on  what  conditions  the  lands  in  question  were 
held  before  the  year  1629,  my  ignorance  of  feudal 
law  disables  me  from  saying ;  but  it  is  plain,  both 
from  the  tradition  mentioned  by  Mr.  Campbell, 
and  the  charters  at  ])resent  in  my  possession,  that 
this  family  of  ]\Iotherwclls  had  been  settled  in  that 
locality,  and  probably  on  this  very  spot,  for  at  least 
ibur  hundred  years, — the  land  and  the  occupation 
descending  in  regular  succession  fi'om  father  to  son. 
'J'lie  name  itself  is  obviously  a  local  surname  ;  but 
it  belongs  to  the  county  of  Lanark,  in  the  middle 
■ward  of  which,  and  in  the  parish  of  Dalziel,  th^re 
is  a  considerable  villairo  called  Motherwell.     The 


*  An  abbreviation  of  Hospital,  and  a  oommon  designation  of 
«m.-ill  farms  in  fcrtain  parts  of  Seotland.  Lands  so  called  ha'l 
formed  portions  of  the  extensive  possessions  of  tlie  military  order 
of  Knii;iits  Hospitallers. 

t  Blank  in  the  orij^inal. 

t  I  am  indebted  for  the  transcription  of  this  passage  to  my 
friend  Dr.  John  Smith,  the  well-known  Secreta-y  to  the  Maitlan'l 
Club. 


MEMOIR.  21 

statistical  accounts  speak  of  a  well  or  spring  as  still 
existing  there,  from  which  the  inhabitants  are  sup- 
plied with  water,  and  which,  in  the  olden  time,  was 
called  the  "  Well  of  our  Ladye."  It  was  pi-obably 
believed  to  possess  medicinal  virtues,  and  w-as, 
therefore,  placed  under  the  immediate  protection 
of  the  "  Virgin  Motlier," — whence  the  name  Motli- 
erwell.*  Its  antiquity  as  a  surname  must  be  cou- 
siderable,  since  it  appears  in  the  Ragman  Rf)llst 
for  129G,  and  also  in  tlie  index  to  a  cartulary  of 
the  ]\Ionastery  of  Paisley,  in  1490;  aud,  from  what 
has  been  already  stated,  it  will  be  seen  that  that 
branch  of  the  race  froui  which  the  poet  sprang 
had  been  planted  in  Stirlingshire  as  far  back  as 
the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  name, 
however,  is  an  unconmion  onc.J 

*  Few  towns,  where  there  has  been  an  ecolesiaftical  establish- 
ment, such  as  Glasgow,  lor  instance,  want  a  Lady  Well. 

t  The  title  given  to  the  list  oi  names  of  those  who  swore  fealty 
to  Edward  I.,  which  has  now  something  of  the  character  and  in. 
terest  of  a  "  Domesday  Book." 

t  In  illustration  of"  the  history  of  the  poefs  family,  it  may  be 
mentioned,  that  there  is  extant  a  deed  of  "  ii^sii^nation  and  dis- 
position," by  his  grandfither,  David  Motherwell,  wherein  he 
bequeathes  to  each  of  his  "  younger  sons  "  (the  number  is  not 
luentloued)  ;E100  sterling;  and  to  each  of  his  daughtei-s,  Elizabeth, 
Janet,  and  Amelia,  1,000  mcrks  Scots,  or  about  £56  sterling. 
Janet  married      .         .  Henry  Raniierman. 

Elizabeth     "         .         .  David  Whyte. 

Amelia        "         .         .  John  liaruet. 

Tlio  latter  was  probably  the  poefs  uncle.  The  descendants  of 
Janet  are  now  eminent  merchants  in  Manchcsti-r,  and  the  Une  of 
Motherwell  Is  represented  by  the  ))oet's  nephew,  the  .son  of  his 
elder  hrotlier  David,  Mr.  Charles  McArthur  Motherwell,  who  is  a 
purser's  clerk  in  the  navy.  The  name  of  William  Motlierwell's 
grandmother  was  Amelia  Monteath,  the  daughter  oj  an  old  aud 
respect;ible  familv  settled  at  Dunblane  in  Stirlingshne.  A  sister 
of  his  mother's  niarried  a  .Mr.  Ogilvie,  who  left  a  son.  Major  Ogil- 
vie.  now  resilient  in  Edinburgh. 

John  de  Moderwell,  i-liaplaiii.  appears,  in  a  deed  of  14B0.  as  one 
cf  the  Procurators  of  Henry  of  Livingston,  Knight.  Commander 
of  the  Temple  of  St.  John  ;  which  Sir  Henry  was  son  of  William, 
Lord  of  Kilsvth,  and  I'n  ceptor  of  Torphichen.  He  died  in  14f33. 
Edward,  his  elder  brother,  was  the  direct  ancesfor  of  the  Vi.-count 
liil.sy  th,  who  was  attaL.ted  in  1715.  Tnere  is  no  evidence  of  any 
.  celationship  between  this  ancient  priest  and    he  poet's  family; 


22  MEMOIR. 

It  having  been  resolved,  I  know  not  why,  to 
devote  this  wayward  and  dreamy  boy  to  tlie  legal 
profession,  he  was  placed,  at  the  aae  of  fifteen,'^in 
the  office  of  the  Sheriff-Clerk  of  Paisley,  where  he 
remained  for  many  years  ;  but,  as  may  be  readily 
conceived,  the  duties  of  such  a  situation  were  but 
little  congenial  to  his  tastes.  Notwithstanding  his 
dislike  to  the  duties  of  a  writer's  clerk,  he  contrived 
to  turn  his  new  position  so  far  to  account  by  be- 
stowing great  pains  on  the  deciphering  of  ancient 
legal  documents;  an  art  in  which  he" latterly  ex- 
celled. I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Sheriff  Campbell 
for  the  following  interesting  particulars  concernino' 
Motherwell  at  this  time  : — 

"  When  I  first  knew  William  Motherwell,  he  waa 
a  very  little  boy  in  the  Sheriff-Clerk's  office  here. 
I  had  observed  his  talent  for  sketching  figures  of 
men,  in  armor  and  otherwise,  and,  amongst  the 
rest,  one  of  myself,  upon  a  blotter,  which"  I  had 
occasion  to  use  when  sitting  in  the  Sheriff-Court. 
I  gave  tlim  a  few  ancient  documents  to  copy  for 
me,  and,  in  [)lace  of  an  ordinary  transcript,  I  re- 
ceived from  him,  with  surprise  and  satisfaction,  a 
facsimile  so  perfect,  that,  except  for  the  color  and 
texture  of  the  paper,  it  would  have  been  difli- 
ciilt  to  distinguisli  it  from  the  original  manuscript. 
Finding  liim  a'  smart  and  intelligent  boy,  I  asked 
him  to  give  me  a  statement,  in  writing,  of  certain 
occurrences  to  which  he  had  been  a  witness,  at  a 
perio(l  when  the  peace  of  the  district  was  threaten- 
ed.   This  account  was  not  confined  to  facts,  but  was 

but  hlq  connection  with  Kilsyth,  where  a  branch  of  the  Mother- 
Ifells  hiis  been  planted  for  many  reiituries.  might  justify  the  sus- 
picion, that  he  was  of  the  same"  lineage.  This  mention  of  him  in 
80  old  a  document  is  satisfactory  evidence  of  the  antiquity  of  the 
Burnamc, whatever  opinion  we  may  form  as  to  his  probable  aDSni'v 
to  the  ancestors  of  the  subject  of  this  memoir. 

For  these  detiils  I  am  iiidebtivl  chietiv  to  the  diligence  and 
antiquarian  skill  of  my  lat^-  ann'.ible  and  i.imo'ited  friend,  .Mr. 
Philip  lUmsay.  of  Edinburgh.  S.  S.  C.  who  had  collected  sonj« 
materials  for  a  life  of  Uilliam  Motherwell. 


MEMOIR.  23 

interspersed  with  observations  and  reflections  of  hig 
own,  of  a  nature   so  unexpoctod  and  so   curious, 
that  I  wished  to  preserve  it ;  but  I  am  sorry  that, 
in  a  search  made  for  it  some  years  ago,  I  was  una- 
ble to  find  it.     The  notions  of  the'  boy  were  then 
what  would   now   be  called  exfremcli/  liberal.     In 
])rocess  of  time,  however,  his  views  chancrcd,  and  I 
used  to  joke  him  upon  the  ground  that  his  conver- 
sion had  been  beaten  into  him  by  a  party  of  lads 
(radicals),  with  Avhom  he  happened  to  get  into  con- 
flict.    On  that  occasion  he  was  thrown  down  and 
trampled  upon  in  the  street,  and  received  injuries 
60  severe,  that   his    life  was  thought  in  imminent 
danger.      This,   I   believe,  was  in  1818   or   1819, 
during   a  time    of  political    excitement.     He  was 
appointed  to  the  office  of  Sherifl"-Clerk  Depute,  of 
the    county  of  Renfrew,   under   the   late    Robert 
Walkinshaw,  of  Parkhouse,  the  princijial  clerk,  in 
Jklay,  1819,  and  held  that  situation  with  credit  till 
November,  1829. 

"  His  talent  for  poetry  was  accompanied  by  a 
strong  taste  for  the  antique,  and  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  last  may  have  its  origin  in  the 
copying  of  the  ancient  manuscript  for  me.  While 
in  office  here,  he  contributed  articles  to  the  Paisley 
Advertiser,  and  ultimately  became  its  editor.  He 
had  also  a  chief  hand  in  commencing  and  conduct- 
ing a  Paisley  Monthly  ^lagazine,  which  lived  to 
attain  to  the  size  of  a  goodly  volume.  It  (-ontained 
many  contributions  from  his  pen,  besides  a  number 
of  curious  extracts  from  documents  which  his  re- 
searches among  the  records  of  the  Sheriff-Clerk's 
oflice  brought  to  light.  At  a  recent  sale  of  the 
library  of  a  deceased  Paisley  gentleman,  this  ISIaga- 
zine,  though  poorly  bound,  brought  the  respectable 
price  of  22.f.  6J.  His  temperament  was  enthusias- 
tic, kind,  and  convivial I   had  a  great 

regard  lor  him." 
'Upon  this  outline  of  Motherwell's  history,  from 


2-1  -         MEMOIR. 

the  age  of  fifteen  to  thirty-two,  I  would  remark,  in 
•the  first  place,  that  we  learn  from  it,  that  eighteen 
of  the  most  valuable  years  of  his  life  were  passed  in 
an  occupation  which  presented  the  fewest  possible 
attractions  for  a  man  of  his  habits  and  pursuits;  and 
in  the  second  place,  that  if  he  attained  to  a  certain 
measure  of  excellency  in  poetical  composition,  in  cir- 
cumstances so  unfavorable  to  the  growth  of  a  poetical 
temper,  his  merit  was  all  the  higher  on  that  account. 
The  incident  to  which  Mr.  Campbell  refers,  and 
■which  he  supposes  determined  his  future  political 
creed,  Motherwell  always  spoke  of  with  the  strongest 
indignation.  It  occurred  during  the  time  of  what 
■was  called  the  Radical  War  in  the  west  country 
(1818),  and  when,  as  Sherlif-Clerk  Depute,  he 
was  obliged,  in  obedience  to  the  orders  of  his 
superiors,  to  perform  many  duties  which  rendered 
him  unpopular.  A  deliberate  attempt  was  made 
to  murder  him,  by  throwing  him  over  the  bridge 
into  the  Cart,  and  he  has  often  assured  me,  that  he 
was  actual  1\'  raised  to  the  top  of  the  parapet  wall 
by  the  infuriated  mob  beibre  he  was  rescued.  That 
he  should  have  abandoned  liberalism,  after  such 
treatment  would  not  be  surprising;  but  the  truth 
is,  that  his  political  belief  was  a  part  of  his  nature, 
and  was  very  slij^htly  modified  by  external  consid- 
erations. His  ideas  of  the  constitution  of  civil 
society  were  chivalric,  not  ])hilosophical ;  and  if 
others  undervalued  the  virtues  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
he  certainly  overrated  them.  It  was  not  his  custom 
to  analyze  his  emotions  too  nicely  at  any  period  of 
his  life ;  and  I  can  perfectly  understand  how  he 
may  have  been  captivated  as  a  boy  with  those 
showy  notions,  which  are  more  or  less  prevalent  in 
all  imperfectly  instructed  societies,  and  wliich  have 
so  many  charms  for  youthful  imaginations.  But 
Motherwell  was  instinctively  a  Tory, — all  the  ten- 
denties  of  his  mind  gravitated  towards  the  creed 
of  that  old  and  respectable  Jiarty, — and  I  am  satis- 


MEMOIR.  25 

• 

fiecl  that  Ills  monarchical  principles  would  havo 
been  just  as  high  after  he  escai)e(l  from  mere  non-  , 
af^c,  had  he  never  handled  a  truiiclieou  in  defence 
of  the  public  peace  on  the  streets  of  Paisley.  His 
political  convictions  might  be  extreme,  but  they 
were  honest.  He  firmly  believed  that  his  opinions 
were  founded  in  truth,  and  that  their  vindication 
was  essential  to  the  well-being  of  his  country ;  nor 
have  I  ever  known  a  man  who  had  more  thoroughly 
identified  himself  with  the  doctrines  which  he  main- 
tained and  promulgated. 

There  is  another  point  noticed  by  Mr.  Campbell, 
namely,  his  power  of  sketching.  This  was  a  facul- 
ty which  he  possessed  in  the  highest  perfection,  so 
much  so,  that,  had  he  not  been  a  poet,  he  might 
liave  been  an  artist.  Many  of  his  manuscripts  are 
illustrated  at  the  beginning,  after  the  manner  of 
old  black-letter  volumes  and  illuminated  missals, 
and  numerous  scraps  of  paper  attest  his  accurate 
perception  of  the  ludicrous  and  the  horrible,  by 
all  sorts  of  queer  and  grotesque  delineations.  A 
few  strokes  of  his  pen  were  sufficient  for  this,  and 
it  is  impossible  not  to  admire  the  ease  which  at- 
taches to  these  fiooires.     His  handwriting  likewise 

•         •  til 

partook  of  this  peculiarity.  It  was  formal  and 
square,  and,  particularly  in  the  capital  letters,  re- 
sembled the  Clialdee  character,  constituting,  in 
fact,  a  variety  of  painting.* 

The  winter  session  of  1818-19  he  sjient  at  Glas- 
gow College,  where  he  attended  the  Latin  class, 
under  the  late  Mr.  Walker,  and  the  Greek  class, 
under  the  late  Mr.  Young  ;  but,  as  1  have  already 
stated,  he  never  attained  to  ordinary  proficiency 

*  This  seems  to  have  been  a  very  early  habit.  Mr.  Crawford 
Bpeiiks  of  it  in  these  terms  :  "  lie  was  also  remarkable  for  his 
talent  for  sketching  figures  of  mailed  knights,  on  foot  and  mount- 
ed, and  all  manner  of  caricatures,  which  were  sketched  with 
great  life  and  spirit.  The  boards  of  his  class-fellows'  school 
books  were  covered  with  Motherwell's  sketches,  and  it  was  con- 
sidered a  great  tavot  when  he  gave  them  one." 


2G  MEArOIR. 

ill  either  language,  and  witli  the  modern  tongiiesj 
he  was  wholly  unacquainted.  He  manifested  at 
this  time  a  strong  desire  to  rejuiir  the  defects  of  his 
early  education  ;  and  in  a  letter  to  his  friend,  the 
late  Mr.  Robert  Walkinshaw,  in  March,  1818,  he  ex- 
presses a  hope  that,  should  he  succeed  to  the  office 
of  Sheriff-Clerk  De])ute,  then  held  by  ]\Ir.  Walkin- 
shaw, he  might  be  able  "  to  save  some  little  money, 
sufficient  to  re-launch  his  frail  skiff  once  more  on 
the  dead  sea  of  the  languages." 

As  the  office  of  Sheriff-Clerk  Depute  brought 
him  a  considerable  income,  he  spent  the  greater 
part  of  it  in  the  purchase  of  books,  and  long  before 
his  removal  to  Glasgow  he  had  collected  a  large 
and  miscellaneous  library.  Like  most  book-fanciers, 
he  sometimes  sacrificed  usefulness  to  the  indulgence 
of  a  spirit  of  curiosity  ;  but  in  that  province  of 
literature  to  which  he  was  chiefly  devoted, — poetry 
and  the  historical  romance, — his  library  was  rich. 
Its  chief  wants  were  in  the  department  of  modern 
history,  and  moral  and  ])hilosophical  science,  in  none 
of  which  subjects  can  it  be  said  that  he  took  much 

f)leasure.    His  knowledge  of  them  was,  consecjuent- 
y,  defective,  and  this  was  both  felt  and  seen  when 
politics  became  his  profession. 

It  may  be  naturally  supposed  of  the  man  who  at 
fourteen  .sketched  the  outline  of  Jeanie  Morrison, 
that,  if  he  did  not  actually  lisp  in  numbers,  the  art 
of  versification  must  have  been  at  least  an  irresist- 
ible habit,  and  that  spoute  sua  cari)u;n  numeros 
veniehdl  ad  aptos ;  but  when  he  first  committed 
himself  pulilicly  to  the  dangers  and  allurements  of 
rhyme,  or  where,  I  have  been  unable  satisfactorily 
to  ascertain.  In  1818  he  contributed  some  little 
things  to  a  small  work  published  at  Greenock, 
called  the  "  Visitor,"  and  for  several  years  after- 
wards he  continued  to  furnish  with  pieces  of  origi- 
nal {)oetry  such  of  his  literary  friends  in  Paisley 
and  Glasgow  as  applied  to  him  for  assistance.     In 


MEMOIR.  27 

this  respoot  liis  liberality  was  exemplary,  if  not 
prodijjjal ;  but  ho  afterwards  follucted  the  best  of 
these  fugitive  produetiotis,  and  embodied  them  in 
that  volume  upon  which  his  reputation  as  a  poet 
must  ultimately  rest.  In  1819,  the  "  Harp  of  Kcn- 
frewshire,"  *  of  which  he  was  the  editor,  appeared 
at  Paisley.  This  work  is  anonymous  ;  but  it  is  well 
known  to  have  been  brought  out  under  Mother- 
well's care,  who  supplied  the  introductory  essay, 
which  was  his  first  attempt  at  serious  criticism.  In 
it  he  gives  a  rapid  sketch  of  the  poets  of  Renfrew- 
shire, betjinning  with  Sir  Hugh  Montgomerie,  who 
died  at  a  very  advanced  age  in  1545,  and  ending 
with  Robert  Tannahill,  whom  he  could  not  have 
known  personally,  but  with  whose  melancholy  his- 
tory he  bad  ample  means  of  becoming  acquainted. 
The  notes  are  likewise  by  him,  and  are  both  nu- 
merous and  valuable  ;  and  this  little  volume,  which 
is  now  scarce,  may  be  regarded  as  a  favorable 
specimen  of  his  zeal  and  diligence.  Its  chief 
merit,  however,  is,  that  it  was  the  herald  to  a  work 
of  much  lai'ger  pretensions,  and  with  which  his 
fame  is  now  closely  identified, — "  Minstrelsy,  An- 
cient and  Modern,"!  which  was  published  at  Glas- 
gow, in  1827,  and  which  instantly  secured  for  its 
author  an  honorable  place  among  the  commen- 
tators on  our  national  poetry.  The  "  Historical 
Introduction "  is  elaborate  and  full,  but  I  must 
leave  it  to  those  who  have  made  such  subjects  as  it 
discusses  a  study  to  decide  upon  its  merits ;  it  is 
enough  to  state  here,  that  this  work  brought 
him  into  direct  communication  with  some  men  of 
high    distinction    in    the   world    of    lettero,    and 

*  The  Harp  of  Renfrewshire  ;  a  Collection  of  Songs  and  other 
Poetical  I'ieces,  many  of  which  are  Original  ;  accompanied  with 
Notes,  Ixplanatory,  Critic:il.  and  Biographical:  and  a  Short  Ks- 
say  on  the  Poets  of  Kcufn.'wshire.     1  vol.     t'aisley,  1819. 

t  Minstrelsy  ;  Ancient  and  Modern  :  with  an  Ilistorical  Intro- 
(luctiou,  and  Notes.  By  William  Motherwell.  John  Wylie. 
alasgow,  1827. 


28  MKMOIR. 

amongst  others   with  Sir  Walter   Scott.     Tlie  an- 
cient  ballad   of    "  Gil   Morriee "   seems    to    have 
attracted  nuich  of  Motherwell's  attention.     It  was 
the   fouiidaliun   of  Home's   celebrated   tragedy  of 
"  Douo-las,"  and  the  scene  of  the  melancholy  ad- 
venture  which  it   relates   was   "  Carronside/'  the 
home  of    his   ancestors.      He    tells    us,   moreover, 
that   "  the  green   wood "   of   the    ballad    was   th'j 
ancient  forest  of   Dundaff,   in    Stirlingshire,   and 
that  "Lord  Barnard's  castle  is  said  to  "have  occu- 
pied a  precipitous  cliff  overhanging  the    water  of 
Carron,  on   the  lands  of  Halbertshire."*      Earls- 
burn,  a  favorite   name   with   him,   is   also  a  small 
stream  in  that  locality,  which  falls  into  the  Carron, 
and  derives  its  appellation,  according  to  him,  from 
the  Earl's  sou,  who  is  the  hero  of  this  legendary 
poem.     There  is  Internal  evidence  in  his  writings 
to  show,  that  he   had  carefully  intpiired  into   this 
matter  while  residing  with  his  uncle  at  Muirmill ; 
but  it  was  fi-om  an  old  woman  at  Paisley,  who  sannf 
the  verses  to  him,  that  he  obtained  that' copy  of  the 
ballad  which  he  considered  the  true  one,  and  which 
led  to  his  correspondence  with   Sir  Walter.     His 
idea   was,    that    (Jiu    should    have    been    written 
CHILD,  and   that   MoujiiCK   was  an   obvious  cor- 
ruption   of   NoKYCE,  the   old    English    word   for 
foster-child.     AVillie,  the  page,  is  called  in  one  of 
the  vei'sions,  (iMr.  Jamiesou's,)    his   "  tbster-brith- 
er";    and    Motherwell's   object   would   api)ear   to 
h;ive  been,   to  show  that  between   the  "  child's " 
laesseng-ii-  and   himself  there   existed   a   stronger 
buiKl  of  union  than  mere  feudalism  could  create. 
]ii  this  way,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  he  proposed  to 
account  for  "  Willie's"  undertalcing,  though  reluc- 
tantlv,  to   deliver   the   message   to   Lady  Barnard 
fiom  her  son,  the  ill-fated   Gil,  of  whose  relation- 
Bliip  to  that   noble   person  the   lad    was   ignorant. 

•  "  Minatrclsy,"  p.  ajS 


MEMOIR.  29 

He  uccordingl)-  wrote  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  upon 
the  subject,  as  early  as  April,  1825,  two  years  be- 
fore the  "  Minsti'elsy  "  appeared,  and  received  from 
that  eminent  niau  the  following  reply  : — : 

"Abbotsfokd,  3d  May,  1825. 

"  Sir, 
"  I  am   honored  with   your  letter  covering  the 
curious  old  version  of  the  ballad  of  '  Gil  Llorrice,' 
which  seems,  according  to  your  copy,  to  be  a  cor- 
ruption of  Child  Norrice,  or  Child  Nursling,  as  we 
would  say.     As  I  presume  the  ballad  to  be  gen- 
uine, and,   indeed,   see   no  reason   to  suspect  the 
contrary,  the   style  being   simple   and  ancient,  I 
think    you  should   print   it  exactly    as   you  have 
taken  it  down,  and  with  a  reference  to  the  person 
by  whom  it  is  preserved  so  special  as  to  enable  any 
one  to  ascertain  its  authenticity  who  may  think  it 
worth  while.     I  have  asked  at  diiferent  times,  the 
late   Mr.  John    Home,   concerning   the  ballad   on 
Avhich  he  was  supposed  to  have  founded  '  Douglas,' 
but  his  memory  was  too  imperfect,  when   I   knew 
him,  to  admit  of  his  giving  me  any  information.     I 
have  heard  my  mother,  who  was  Ibnd  of  the  ballad, 
say  that  when  '  Douglas'  was  in  its  height  of  pop- 
ularity,  'Gil    Morrice'  was,  to   a  certain   extent, 
rewritten,  which    renovated    copy,   of   course,   in- 
cludes all  the  new  stanzas  about  '  Minerva's  loom,' 
and  so  forth.     Yet  there  are  so  many  fine  old  vers- 
es in  the  conmion  set,  that  1  cannot  agree  to  have 
them  mixed  up  even  with  your  set,  though  more 
ancient,  but  woulil  like  to    see   them   kept   quite 
separate,  like  ditl'eront   sets  of  the    same  melody. 
In  fact,  I  think  I  did  wrong  myself,  in  endeavor- 
ing to   make   the    best  possible  set  of  an  ancient 
baUad   out   of  several   copies   obtained   from   dif- 
ferent quarters,  and  that,  in   many  respects,   if  I 
Improved  the  poetry,  I  spoik^l  the  simplicity  of  the 
old  son<T.     There  is  no  wonder  this  should  be  the 


30  MEMOIR. 

ease,  ^rhen  one  considers  tint  the  singers  or  recit- 
ers by  whom  these  balUuls  were  preserved  and 
handed  down  must,  in  jreneral,  have  had  a  facility, 
from  memory  at  least,  if  not  from  genius,  (which 
they  might  often  jjossess,)  of  filling  up  verses 
which  tliey  ha<l  forgotten,  or  altering  such  as  they 
might  think  they  could  improve.  Passing  through 
this  process  in  different  parts  of  the  country,  the 
ballads,  admitting  that  they  had  one  common  poet- 
ical original,  (which  is  n.ot  to  be  inferred  merely 
from  the  similitude  of  the  story,)  became,  in  pro- 
gress of  time,  totally  different  productions,  so  far 
as  the  tone  and  spirit  of  each  is  concerned.  In 
such  cases,  perhaps,  it  is  as  well  to  keep  them  sep- 
arate, as  giving  in  their  original  state  a  more  accu- 
rate idea  of  our  ancient  poetry,  which  is  the  point 
most  important  in  such  collections.  There  is  room 
for  a  ver}'  curious  essay  on  the  relation  which  the 
popular  poetry  of  the  North  of  Europe  bears  to 
that  of  the  South,  and  even  to  that  of  Asia  ;  and 
the  varieties  of  some  of  our  ballads  might  be  ac- 
counted for  by  showing  that  one  edition  had  been 
derived  from  the  French  or  Norman,  another  from 
the  Danish,  and  so  on,  so  that,  though  the  sub- 
stance of  the  dish  be  the  same,  the  cookery  is  that 
of  foreign  and  distant  cui.sii.iers.  This  reasoning 
certainly  does  not  apply  to  mere  brief  alterations 
and  corruptions,  which  do  not,  as  it  were,  change 
the  tone  and  form  of  the  original. 

"  You  will  observe  that  I  have  no  information  to 
give  respecting  '  Gil  Morrice,'  so  1  might  as  well, 
perhaps,  have  saved  you  the  trouble  of  this  long 
letter. 

"  I  am.  Sir, 

"  Your  obliged,  humble  servt., 

"  Walter  Scott." 

Sir  "Walter  and  Motherwell  never  met,  but  after 
the  death  of  that  great  man  he  performed  a  pil- 


MEMOIR.  31 

primage  to  Abbotsford  ;  and,  as  I  am  inforaied,  waa 
wont  to  say  that  "  nothing  in  that  splendiil  man- 
sion had  affected  him  so  much  as  Sir  Walter's 
stair,  with  the  bit  dibble  at  the  end  of  it."*  Of 
course,  in  the  I'orthcoihing  edition  of  the  "Minstrel- 
sy," he  followed  the  advice  of  the  illustrious  critic, 
and  kept  his  own  copy  of  the  ballad  distinct  from 
(he  others,  and  so  it  stands  in  the  volume. 

In  1828  the  Paisley  Llagazine  was  begun  by 
Motherwell,  and  carried  on  by  him,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  his  friends,  for  a  year.  It  is,  undoubtedly, 
what  Mr.  Campbell  represents  it, — a  res])ectable 
provincial  work ;  and  in  it,  for  the  first  time,  ap- 
peared some  of  the  poet's  best  pieces,  such  as  The 
Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi, — Midnight  and 
Moonshine, — The  Water  !  the  Water  .'—The  Woo- 
ing Song  of  Jarl  Egill  Skallgrim, — and  Wearie's 
Well.  His  position,  however,  had  now  changed, 
and  it  will  be  necessary  to  explain  how  this  waa 
brought  about. 

In  the  year  1826  a  newspaper  was  begun  in 
Paisley,  called  the  "  Paisley  Advertiser."  Its  poH- 
tics  were  conservative  and  ministerial,  and  its  first 
editor  was  a  Mr.  John  Goldie,  who  had  been  for- 
merly connected  with  an  Ayr  journal.  He  died 
suddenly  within  a  year,  and  was  succeeded  in  his 
othce  by  i\lr.  ^Villiam  Kennedy,  an  Irish  gentle- 
man of  distinguished  jjoetical  abilities,  and  the 
author  of  the  pretty  poem  called  "  Tiie  Arrow 
and  the  Rose";  and  also  of  a  little  volume  of  poems 
entitled  "  Fitful  Fancies." 

Between  Mr.  Kennedy  and  IMotlierwell  there 
sprang  up  a  strong  friendship.  They  were  both 
a(Jdicted  to  literatui-e  and  poetry ;  they  thought 
alike  on  matters  political,  and  were  nearly  of  an 
age.  It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  Mother- 
\ve\l  should  have  become  a  contributor  and  a  pro- 

*  Notes  by  Mr.  Charles  Hutchison. 


82  MKMOtn. 


I 


riclor,  and  still  less  so  that,  on  tlip  retirement  of 
Mr.  Kennedy,  in  1«2H,  he  should  have  succeeded 
him  as  editor  of  that  paper.  \Viiat  success  he  may 
have  had  in  his  new  capacity  I  know  not ;  but  on 
the  retirement  of  Mr.  Jairtes  jNI'Queen  from  the 
manajrement  of  the  Glasfvow  Courier,  in  1830,  INIr. 
Motherwell  was  invited  by  the  proprietors  of  that 
journal  to  take  his  place;  and  all  things  being 
satisftictorily  arranged,  he  left  Paisley  and  took  up 
his  abode  in  Glasgow  in  the  beginning  of  that  year. 
The  first  number  of  the  Courier,  which  appeared 
after  his  accession  to  the  office  of  editor,  has  the 
date  of  2d  February,  1830;  and  he  continued  in 
connection  with  that  paper  till  his  death  in  Novem- 
ber, 1835. 

Whether  journalism  was  exactly  the  vocation 
that  was  best  suited  to  a  man  of  his  tastes  and 
peculiar  acquirements,  I  shall  not  take  upon  me  to 
determine;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  en- 
tered upon  his  new  duties  at  Glasgow  at  a  time  of 
great  dilHculty  and  considerable  public  danger. 
The  polilical  world  was  at  that  moment  upheaved 
from  its  foundations,  and  the  revolution  in  France, 
consequent  upon  the  three  glorious  days  of  July, 
followed  as  that  event  was  by  the  accession  of  Lord 
Grey's  administration,  and  the  Reibrin  Bill  excite- 
ment, presented  to  a  lover  of  the  olden  ways  a 
mass  of  embarrassment,  which  we  may  admit  to 
liave  been  unsurmountable.  Whatever  Mother- 
well's views  may  have  been  in  boyhood,  they  were 
now  fixed.  He  saw  one  after  another  of  his  most 
cherished  prejudices  first  derhled,  and  then  de- 
stroyed. Change  followed  change  with  the  rapid- 
ity of  lightning,  and,  Iti  the  midst  of  tliis  universal 
■whirlwind,  the  only  man  in  this  immense  com- 
munity who  was  expected  to  keep  himself  free 
from  the  common  contagion,  and  to  observe  the 
most  philosophical  abstinence  in  the  discussion  of 
passing  events,  was  the  Tory  editor  of  the  Tory 


MEMOIR.  33 

newspaper  !  INIei-e.  humanit}'  is  not  ef(nal  to  so 
great  a  trial  as  this,  and  oMotlierwell  was  not  the 
man  to  afTi'ct  to  uiideriio  it.  He  entered  into  the 
strife  with  all  iiis  soul ;  and  whatever  dliFerence  of 
opinion  may  have  formerly  prevailed  as  to  his 
style  of  defence,  it  will  not  be  denied  by  l;is  bitter- 
est political  enemies,  (for  I  would  ])ersiiade  myself 
that,  ])ersonally,  he  had  and  could  have  none,)  that 
he  conducted  his  case  for  many  years,  against 
fri^rhtful  oilds,  with  exemplary  zeal,  courane,  and 
fidelity.  It  would  be  easj-,  no  doubt,  to  select  from 
his  writings  at  that  time  passages  which  might 
appear  objectionable  ;  but  the  same  remark  would 
ap])ly  ecjually  to  his  opponents ;  and  those  only 
who  have  had  some  experience  of  a  controversial 
life,  and  of  the  perplexities  which  beset  a  writer 
for  the  public  j)ress  in  a  provincial  town,  can  form 
an  adecjuate  conception  of  the  ditnculties  with 
which  INlotherAvell  was  at  that  juncture  surrounded. 
Tiie  public  minil  is  now  comparative!}  cool ;  it 
"was  then  at  a  boiling  heat,  and  in  the  fierce  con- 
test of  parties  passions  were  evoked  which  over- 
mastered reason,  and  laid  judgment  prostrate  in 
the  dust.  That  in  such  a  tumult  he.  a  man  of 
■wann  and  impetuous  temperament,  should  have 
stood  erect  and  looked  down  with  complacent  in- 
difference on  the  scene  below  was  impossible  ;  nor 
did  he  make  the  attem])t.  He  defended  his  prin- 
ciples from  the  assaults  daily  and  hourly  made 
upon  them,  and  it  was  his  duty  to  do  so;  but  if  iu 
the  execution  of  that  duty  he  transgressed  the 
established  laws  of  political  warfare,  or  outraged 
any  of  the  conventional  courtesies  of  life,  then  he 
was  blamable.  I  do  not  say  that  this  was  the  case, 
because  I  do  not  think  so;  not  that  I  woidd  be  un- 
derstood as  approving  of  all  that  he  wrote  in  these 
times,  but  that,  considering  the  circumstances  ia 
which  he  was  placed,  his  abstinence  from  a  certain 
measure  of  vehemence  would  have  argued  a  neu- 
3 


84  MEMOIR. 

trality  of  fi?elinff  on  tlie  efi'cat  qr.estions  of  the  day, 
which  would  liave  literally  disqualified  him  for  the 
ofTice  that  he  held.  Let  us  be  just  to  the  dead, 
theu,  aud  irrant  that  what  was  well  was  due  to  the 
man,  and  that  what  was  amiss  was  chargeable  upon 
the  infirmity  of  our  common  nature. 

In  his  editorial  caparity  Motherwell  occasionally 
drew  upon  Ins  poetical  faculty,  and  in  general  suc- 
cessfully, as  the  following  /cm  (Vesprh  will  show.  It 
appeared  early  in  1833,  when  the  Reform  Bill  was 
supposed  to  be  in  danger,  and  when  its  friends  in 
Glasgow  exhibited  an  unusual  degree  of  anxiety 
respecting  it.  T — m  A — k — n  is  the  late  Mr. 
Thomas  Aitkinson,  bookseller,  who  was  a  very 
keen,  liberal  politician.  M'P — n  was  his  neighbor 
Mr.  M'Pinni,  likewise  a  bookseller,  and  ajrent  for 
the  "  Sun  "  newspaper.  Sir  D.  K.  S — f — d  is  the  late 
Sir  D.  K.  Sandford,  the  accomplished  Professor  of 
Greek  in  the  Univei'sity  of  Glasgow,  wiio  was  at 
that  time  an  ardent  reformer,  and  whose  prema- 
ture and  much-lamented  death  was  probably  ac- 
celerated by  the  excitement  of  that  miserable 
period,  ^^'ith  these  explanations  this  clever  trifle 
will  be  intelligible: — 

THE  REFORMER'S  GARLAND. 

AN  EXCELLENT  NEW   SONG. 

Tune, — "  Young  Lochinvar.'" 

T — m  A — k — n  mounted  his  berry  brown  steed, 
']'lii-ougli  all  the  West  Country  unequalled  for  speed; 
And,  save  an  odd  threepence  to  pay  for  the  toll, 
He  carried  no  weight  but  a  placard  in  scroll. 
So  lightly  and  jaunty  he  eastward  did  hie, 
AVith  the  l>ill  in  his  heart  and  the  Mail  in  his  eye; — 
He  swore  that,  for  once,  he  would  e-clipse  the  "  Sun,"  * 
And  darken  the  shine  of  his  neighbor,  M'l' — n. 

Cainalchie  folk  stared,  and  Tallcross  stood  abeigh, 
So  rapid  lie  rode,  and  the  steed  wiis  so  skeigh; 

•  This  is  an  allusion  to  the  "  Sun,"  London  newspaper,at  tbM 
time  forwarded  by  special  express  to  Glasgow. 


MKMOIR.  35 

Rut  Tom  ilirl  not  \'alue  his  hoispmniilike  skill; 

His   tlii>iiirlits    were   "  Reform,''    and    "  nauolit    but    tho 

Bill." 
Yea,  even  in  passing  the  scene  at  Carmyle,* 
The  Whig  field  of  honor  seemed  worthless  the  while; — 
For  still  he  expected  to  e-clipsc  the  '"  Sun," 
And  darken  the  shine  of  his  neighbor,  MT — n. 

Then  onward  he  sped,  till  he  came  to  a  turn 
Of  t)ie_  road,  when  the  Guard  of  the  Mail  cried,  "  Ad- 
journ !  " 
And  about  ship  went  Tom,  and  the  spur  did  apply, 
And  the  Stationer,  truly,  for  once  seemed  t.o  Jiy. 
His  Tontine  constituents  soon  did  he  hail. 
For  near  eighteen  minutes  he  distanced  the  ^^ail ; 
The  "Adjourn"  was  repeated,  e-clipsed  was  the  "  Sun," 
The  shine  was  o'erclouded  of  neighbor  M'  P — n. 

Sir  D    K.  S — f — d  next  mounted  his  beast. 
With  its  tail  to  the  west  and  its  head  to  the  east, 
And  on  like  a  War  Knight  the  brute  he  did  urge. 
To  nose  the  effect  of  the  famed  "  Russell  Purge;  " 
But  at  Both  well  the  ]\Iail  Guard  roared  ouF,  "  Lost  by- 
eight!  " 
When  about  went  the  prad,  as  it  had  taken  fright ; 
Sir  Dan  he  stuck  on,  and  again  'clipsed  the  "  Sun,'' 
To  the  utter  confounding  of  neighbor  M'l' — n. 

That  ^lotherwell's  prospects  Avere  improved  by 
a  removal  f'.  Glasgow  may  be  admitted,  since  that 
city,  from  its  nrrcater  size,  would  necessarily  afford 
a  wider  field  for  the  display  of  his  abilities;  but  I 
have  many  doubts  wlietlu-r  the  chantre  was  friendly 
to  the  development  and  cnltivation  of  his  poetical 
faculty.  The  charge  of  a  three-times-a-week  paper 
leaves  little  leisure  for  the  prosecution  of  a  formal 
course  of  study,  while  the  distracting  anxieties, 
which  are  inseparable  from  political  warfare,  aro 
altogether  incompatible  with  that  repose  of  mind 
which  is  essential  to  the  achievement  of  distinction 
in  any  walk  of  literature.  It  is  my  impression, 
therefore,  that  his  Muse  was  comparatively  idle  in 

*  The  scene  of  a  recent  duel,  with  tlie  distance  marked  out  bj 
two  bricks. 


36  MEMOIR. 

Glasgow,  and  that  his  attention  was  directed  to  the 
improvement  of  old,  rather  than  to  the  composition 
of  new  poems.  This  idea  is  partially  eonfirmed  by 
an  inspection  of  two  quarto  volumes  of  manuscript 
pieces  which  he  left  behind  him,  the  one  of  which 
is  nearly  a  transcript  ot'  the  otlier,  and  was  ob- 
viously executed  at  Glasgow ;  and  it  is  farther 
strengthened  by  the  fact,  that  he  published  little, 
after  he  came  to  this  city,  which  had  not  been 
■written  long  before.  It  would  be  idle  to  talk  of 
the  rjenius  loci  in  such  circumstances,  for  the  char- 
acter of  that  mysterious  lady  must  be  much  the 
same  in  both  places,  and  is  not  particularly  spirit- 
ual in  either;  but  tliere  may  be  something  in  the 
disruption  of  olil  and  establislied  ties,  something  in 
the  absence  of  fiuniliar  faces  and  well-known  voices, 
and  something  in  the  destruction  of  those  secret 
and  inexplicable  material  sympathies,  which  make 
one  spot  of  earth  more  than  another  the  home  of  a 
man's  soul.  Whether  any  or  all  of  these  influences 
may  have  affected  him,  I  shall  not  take  upon  me 
positively  to  aflirm  ;  but  I  think  myself  so  far  justi- 
fied in  the  conclusion  at  which  I  have  arrived  by 
the  subsequent  steps  of  his  histoiy,  which  indicate 
a  sluggish  action,  if  not  an  absolute  torpor  of  his 
creative  energies. 

In  1832  a  publication  was  started  in  Glasgow, 
under  the  direction  of  Mr.  J(jhn  .Stran<r,  the  author 
of  two  interestmg  volumes  of  Ti-avels  in  Germanv, 
called  '■'•  'J'he  Day,"  to  which  iMotherwcll  conti-ibuted 
largely.  In  that  periodical  there  af)peared  for  the 
lirst  time  the  following   poetical    pieces  from    his 

5)en  : — The  Serenade, — The  Solemn  Song  of  a 
llighteous  Ilearte, —  Elfinland  Wud, — -The  Cove- 
nanters' Battle-Chant,  —  Caveat  to  the  Wind, — ■ 
What  is  Glory  V  What  is  Fame  ? — A  Solemn 
Conceit, — Tiie  Parting,— The  Ettin  Lang  o'  Siller- 
woofl, — and.  Spirits  of  Light  I  Spirits  of  Shade  1 
^all  of  wlii'li,  with  tlie  exception  of  the  last  two, 


MEMOIR.  37 

lio  afterwards  embodied  in  his  volume*  He  also 
communicated  to  that  work  a  series  of  humorous 
jjapers  in  prose,  entitled,  "  Memoirs  of  a  Paisley 
Bailie,"  which  atforded  considerable  amusement  at 
tlie  time;  and  towards  the  end  of  this  year  he  col- 
lected his  scattei-ed  poetical  f'rajrments,  and  formed 
them  into  a  small  volume,  with  the  title  of"  Poems, 
Narrative  and  Lyrical,"  which  he  dedicated  to  his 
friend  Kennedy.  Most  of  these  pieces,  if  not  the 
whole  of  them,  were  reprints.  I  am  not  quite  sure 
about  the  Battle-Flaji  of  Sigurd,  but  I  rather  tliink 
it  appeared  originally  in  the  pages  of  the  Paisley 
Advertiser. 

This  volume  was,  upon  the  whole,  well  received. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  high  quality  of 
the  poetry  which  an  unknown  author  had  ventured 
thus  to  submit  to  the  world,  but  its  character  was 
peculiar,  and  for  the  most  part  not  fitted  for  exten- 
sive popularity  ;  and  the  season  which  was  chosen 
for  its  introduction  was  eminently  unfavorable  to 
its  chances  of  immediate  success  No  adventitious 
murmurs  of  applause  had  announced  its  approach, 
and  at  a  time  when  little  was  heard  but  the  noise 
of  political  contention,  it  was  perhaps  too  much  to 
expect  that  a  comparatively  obscure  bard  should 
draw  towards  himself  a  large  share  of  the  puljlic 
notice,  let  his  abilities  be  what  they  might.  Tiiis 
work,  however,  gave  JMotherwell,  what  it  had  been 
the  object  of  his  life  to  attain,  a  place  among  the 
poets  of  Britain;  and  it  carried  his  name  into 
quarters    which    it    never    would    have    otherwise 

*  It  is  needless  to  add,  that  these  were  gratuitous  oontributions, 
and  that  flieir  author  neither  expected  nor  rereived  anything  for 
them.  It  w!us  in  this  je.ir  that  Jennie  Monisun  appeared  in  ao 
Edinburgh  uiagai;iiie,  and  for  that  exquisite  lyrical  conipositioa 
he  was  paid  -tliirty  shillings!  George  Bucli;inan  was  not  taS 
wrong  when  he  exclaimed,  three  hundred  years  ago, 

"Denique  quicquid  agis,  comes  .issidet  improba  Ggestaa 
Sive  poema  canis,  sive  poetna  doces.'" 


38  MF.MOIR. 

reached.  A  oommendatory  critiL'ism  in  Black- 
wood's Majraziiie  for  April,  ]  8.'?3,  proclaimed  his 
jiretentions  wherever  the  English  laiiuuajie  is  read  ; 
and,  thouii'h  his  nature  was  too  modest  and  too 
manly  for  the  display  of  any  open  exultation  at 
the  triumph  which  he  had  so  honorably  won,  he 
never  ceased  to  feel  the  deepest  gratitude  to  the 
distinguished  reviewer,  whom  lie  knew  to  be  a 
consunmiate  judge  of  poetical  merit,  and  for  whose 
penius  and  character  he  always  felt  and  expreaseJ 
the  warmest  admiration. 

The  last  work  in  •which  Motherwell  engaged, 
and  which  he  did  not  li\e  to  complete,  was  a  joint 
edition  of  Burns's  woi'ks  l)y  him  and  James  Ilogg, 
the  Ettrick  Shepherd.*  His  share  in  this  produc- 
tion consisted  merely  of  occasional  notes,  critical 
and  explanatory,  which  are  marked  with  the  letter 
M.,  and  in  which  he  exhibits  much  knowledge  of 
the  contemporary  history  of  Burns's  period,  and 
his  usual  discrimination  as  a  commentator.  The 
fifth  and  last  volume  contains  the  Life  of  the  Ayr- 
shire Boet,  by  Hogg ;  but  before  it  appeared,  his 
comparatively  youthful  coadjutor  was  no  more.f 

In  August,  1835,  Motherwell  was  summone(i  to 
London,  to  a])|)(!ar  l)et(jre  a  committee  f)f  the  House 
of  Cnnunons,  which  hail  been  af)pointed  to  take 
evidence  as  to  the  constitution  and  practices  of  the 
Orange  Society,  with  a  view  to  its  supi)ression. 
He  hail  unluckily  allowed  himself  to  b(;  enrolled 
as  a  member  of  that  association,  and  was  one  of  the 

•  The  Works  of  Roliert  Burns,  eilitcd  by  the  Ettrick  Slinpherd 
and  \Villi;iiM  Motlierwell,  Esq.  5  vols.  Glasgow  :  Arclnl.  Ful- 
lerU.n  &  (Jo.     183^i. 

+  It  slioiiM  have  Ix'cn  mentioned  in  its  proper  place,  that  in 
the  yejir  1H32  .Motherwell  supplied  a  preface  of  some  length  to 
Hen(ler«on'.s  volume  of  Scottish  Proverbs.  Andrew  lleuder.son 
wa.s  a  portrait  painter  of  considerable  celebrity  in  (ilasgow.  and 
*n  intimate;  friend  of  tlie  Poet,  lie  was  a  man  of  abrupt  ni.au- 
nerH,  but  of  great  honesty  of  nature,  and  capable  of  both  ste.ad- 
fast  and  warm  attachments,  lie  pre-deceased  Motherwell  by 
about  six  months. 


MEMOIR.  39 

district  scrTotarios  for  tlie  West  of  Scotlaiul.  There 
IS  no  incident  in  liis  Iiistory  whicli  it  more  perplexes 
me  to  account  for  than  this.  He  had  no  connec- 
tion witli  Ireland,  direct  or  indirect,  nor  had  he 
ever  been  in  that  island  in  his  lite,  and  few  men,  in 
my  opinion,  were  less  qualified  by  previous  habits 
of  study  to  appreciate  the  value  of  the  mixed  (jues- 
tions  of  civil  and  ecclesiastical  ])olity  which  that 
body  professed  to  discuss ;  yet  he  entered  with 
characteristic  warmth  into  its  schemes,  and  became 
one  of  the  ajjents  employed  in  the  extension  of  its 
principles.  To  his  mind,  Oran<r<'ism  would  seem 
to  have  presented  itself  under  tlie  guise  of  a  whole- 
some influence  of  general  applicaliility,  which  it 
"was  desirable  to  .perpetuate,  instead  of  Ijeing,  what 
it  really  was,  a  particular  form  of  one  of  those  nu- 
merous factions  into  which  Irish  society  is  divided. 
It  would  not  appear  to  have  occurred  to  him, 
that  whatever  the  merits,  real  or  imaginary,  of  the 
Orange  confederacy  might  be,  its  introduction  Into 
Scotland  couM  be  attended  with  no  benefits  what- 
ever ;  and  that  if  it  was  destined  ever  to  achieve 
advantages  of  a  permanent  kind,  it  was  only  on 
the  soil  which  had  generated  and  nourished  it  that 
this  could  happen.  As  an  antagonist  to  Popery 
and  Jacobitism,  it  was  certainly  not  wanted  in 
Presbyterian  Scotland  ;  and  a  little  reflection  might 
have  satisfied  him,  that  the  civil  and  religious  rights 
of  the  people  of  this  country  wei-e  not  to  Ije  upheld 
through  the  instramentality  of  an  Hibernian  polit- 
ical fraternity,  which  had  outlived  the  necessity 
that  gave  it  birth,  and  which  was  now  ivspectable 
only  fi-om  the  historical  associations  connected  with 
its  origin,  and  the  recollection  of  the  services  which 
it  had  formerly  rendered  to  the  cause  of  constitu- 
tional government  in  Ireland.  His  adhesion  to 
this  body  was,  therefore,  a  decided  eri-or  in  judg- 
ment, while  it  was  attended  with  this  additional 
that  it  gave  rise  to  the  suspicion 


40  MEMOIR. 

tliat  the  party,  whose  public  representative  he  wa?, 
had  become  favorable  to  a  system  of  political  prop- 
agandism,  and  was  not  unwillinjr  to  patronize,  in 
an  underhand  way,  that  which  its  general  creed 
repudiated.  Legitimate  and  open  combination,  it 
did  not,  because  it  could  not,  reject ;  but  it  pro- 
fessed to  hold  secret  societies  in  abhorrence ;  and 
though  the  Oi'ange  body  might  not,  in  strictness  of 
speech,  deserve  to  be  so  called,  it  had  too  many  of 
tlie  characteristics  of  a  sectarian  club  to  be  agree- 
able to  sober-minded  Scotchmen.  This  act,  how- 
ever, was  ])urely  personal,  and  was  confined  to 
Motherwell  and  one  or  two  of  his  more  intimate 
friends  ;  and  I  distinctly  remember,  that  there  was 
no  subject  upon  which  he  was  more  reserved,  and 
none  upon  which  he  bore  a  little  raillery  with  less 
equanimity,  than  upon  his  alliance  with  Irish 
Orangeism.  By  this  time,  however,  the  evil  spirit 
of  political  acerbity  had  displaced  the  gentler  im- 
pulses of  his  nature,  and  William  Motherwell  had 
exchanged  the  catholicity  of  poetry  ibr  the  fanati- 
cism of  social  exclusiveness  !  * 

Motherwell  remained  in  London  for  about  a 
week,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  exhibited 
great  mental  infirmity  before  the  committee, — in 
common  speech,  he  "  broke  down."  That  this  did 
not  result  from  any  want  of  courage  on  his  part, 
will  be  at  once  admitted  by  those  who  knew  the 
man  ;  but  it  is  proper  to  observe,  that  in  such  cir- 
cumstances he  was  constitutionally  "unready"  and 
slow  of  utterance.  He  not  only  rerjuired  time  to 
arrange  his  ideas  and  to  consolidate  his  tlioughts, 
on  the  most  ordinary  occasions,  but  he  was  habit- 
ually slow,  and  even  confused,  in  the  expression 
of  them.     Ko  ordeal  could,  therefore,  be  more  em- 

•  That  this  inciileiit  was  hurtful  to  his  health  was  the  general 
Impression  of  his  friends.  Mr.  Hutchison,  who  wiw  him  fre- 
quently before  he  set  out  for  Loridou,  says  "  that  he  was  (jreatly 
depressed." 


MEMOIR.  41 

barrassina  to  liim  tlian  a  formal  examination  hefore 
a  body  of"  sharp-witted  men,  whose  pleasure  it  not 
infrequently  is  to  lay  snares  for  an  inexperienced 
■witness :  but  besides  this,  I  am  convinced  that  on 
this  particular  point  ]\Iotherwell  was  at  fault  as  to 
knowiedae, — that  he  had  never  seriously  inquired 
of  himself  what  Oranaeism  was,  or  what  object  was 
to  be  Grained  by  its  propagation. — and  that,  conse- 
quentlv,  he   must  have  failed  when  ritroronsly  in- 
to7-ro;rated    by   an    intelligent    and    authoritative 
tribunal    about    these    matters.      Let   me   farther 
a<ld,  in  explanation  of  this  melancholy  occurrence, 
that  it  has  been  lon2  my  fixed  impression  that  he 
was  laboring-  under  the  effects  of  the  approaches 
of  that  insidious  disease  (softening  of  the  brain), 
■which  destroyed  him  a  few  months  afterwards;  and 
those  who  remember  the  circumstances  attendant 
upon  his  visit  to  the  Metropolis,  and  the  strange 
fancies  which  haunted  him  while  there,  will  prob- 
ably have  little  hesitation  in  accepting  this  apology 
for  what  we  may  now  call  an  involuntary  weak- 
ness.    The  indications  of  this  mental  del)ility  did 
not  escape  the  observation  of  the  gentlemen  com- 
posing the  committee ;  and  ^Ir.  Wallace,  of  Kelly, 
at  that  time  member  for  Greenock,  with  a  kindness 
which  was  the  more  honorable  to.  him  that  ]\Iother- 
•well  had  frequently  spoken  of  him  in  his  editorial 
capacitv    with    considerable    severity,    paid    him 
marked    attention;    aiul,   perceiving   how    matters 
reallv  stood,  lost  no  time  in  getting  his  bewildered 
countryman  shipped  off  to  S;'Otland. 

On  iiis  return  he  resumed  his  old  habits  of  life, 
and  was,  to  all  outward  appearance,  in  perfect 
health.  On  Saturday,  the  31st  day  of  October, 
1835,  he  dined  and  spent  the  evening  at  the  house 
of  a  gentleman  in  the  suburbs  of  Glasgow.  There 
was  dancing,  and  it  "(vas  observed  that  he  bled 
freely  at  the  nose,  which  was  attributed  to  the 
aeated  state  of  the  apartments.      On  going  into 


42  MEMOIR. 

the  open  air  for  a  short  time,  the  bleeding  stopped, 
and  at  halt-past  teji  he  left  his  friend's  house  in  the 
company  of  the  late  'Mr.  Robert  M'Nish,  (better 
known  as  tlie  Modern  I'vthagorean,)  and  the  late 
Mr.  Philip  Ramsay,  and  from  these  gentlemen  he 
parted  about  eleven  o'clock.  At  four  o'clock  on 
the  morning  of  the  1st  of  November  he  was  sud- 
denlv  struck  while  in  bed  with  a  violent  shock  of 
apoplexy,  which  almost  instantly  deprived  him  of 
consciousness.  He  had  simply  time  to  exclaim, 
"  Mv  head!  My  head!"  when  he  fell  back  on  the 
jjillow,  and  never  spoke  more.  I  saw  him  in  my 
professional  capacity  about  half-past  six,  having 
been  sent  for  by  the  medical  man  who  was  first 
called  in,  but  the  case  was  then  hopeless,  and  had 
been  obviously  so  from  the  first;  knowing,  how- 
ever, that  a  deep  interest  was  felt  in  his  fate,  and 
anxious  that  he  should  have  the  benefit  of  the  ad- 
vice of  a  senior  j)ractitioner,  I  sent  for  my  late 
friend,  Dr.  William  Young,  but  l:)etbre  he  arrived 
lie  was  dead.  He  expired  quietly,  and  without 
suffering,  at  eight  o'clock,  thus  closing  a  life  of  in- 
cessant labor,  and  of  some  anxiety,  not  unmixed 
with  enjoyment,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-seven. 

He  was  buried  in  the  Necropolis,  a  new  ceme- 
tery, situated  over  against  the  Cathedral,  on  Thurs- 
day, the  5th  of  November;  and  his  remains  were 
followed  to  the  grave  by  a  large  assemblage  of 
friends,  of  all  shades  of  political  o[)inioii ;  nor  were 
the  compositors  and  pressmen  of  the  Courier  office, 
headed  by  their  foreman,  the  late  Mr.  Andrew 
Tou'di,  the  least  interesting  j)art  of  that  j)roces- 
sion.  The  body  was  borne  to  the  ground  on  men's 
shoulders,  and  the  pall-bearers  were, — head,  Mr. 
C.  A.  IMotherwell,  his  iK'f)liew;  foot,  Mr. — now  Sir 
James — Campbell ;  sid(;s,  .Mr.  Wiiyte,  ^Ir.  M'Laren, 
Mr.  M'Arthur,  Mr.  Philip  Ramsay,  Captain  Andrew 
Hamilton,  Sheriff  Campbell.* 
*  It  is  pniuful  to  be  obliged  to  stute,  that  Motherwell's  grav« 


MEMOIR.  43 

IMotlierweU's  doalli  was  deeply  rojjretted  by  the 
citizens  of  (jlas^ow,  ffenei'ally,  and  with  unaffected 
sorrow  by  his  more  innnediate  rehitives,  friends, 
and  associates.  Its  suddenness  invested  it  Avith  a 
melancholy  interest;  and  in  the  presence  of  that 
dread  messenfrer  whose  approach  no  eye  can  de- 
tect, and  whose  stern  ini|iartiality  makes  no  distinc- 
tion of  age,  sex,  or  condition,  it  was  felt  that  the 
tempest  of  political  warfare  should  be  stilled,  and 
that  those  hollow  differences,  which  so  often  sepa- 
rate kinilred  spirits  in  life,  sliould  be  buried  in  that 
grave  which  now  contained  the  mortal  remains  of 
a  man  of  genius  and  of  worth.  The  records  of  his 
demise,  which  appeared  in  the  different  news- 
papers, were  creditaljle  to  their  conductors,  and  in- 
dicated an  anxious  desire  to  do  honor  to  his  merits; 
and  I  have  sincere  pleasure  in  reproducing,  after 
the  lapse  of  eleven  years,  the  handsome  testimony 
Avhich  was  at  that  time  borne  to  his  character  by 
liis  public  opponent,  but  private  friend,  Mr.  William 
Weir,  then  editor  of  the  Glasgow  Argus  : — 

"  This  accomplished  gentleman  died  suddenly  on 
Sunday  morning.  Mr.  Motlierwell's  antiquarian 
knowledge  was  extensive;  and,  as  the  bent  of  his 
mind  towards  the  past  tinged  his  poetry,  so  his 
imagination  lent  grace  and  vitality  to  his  knowl- 
edge. A  small  vokmie  of  lyrical  poems,  published 
some  years  back  by  Mr.  Motherwell,  is  full  of  ten- 
der and  unobtrusive  beautj'.  There  are  few 
])ieces  more  touching,  in  tiie  whole  range  of  Scot- 
tish poetry,  than  his 'Jeanie  Morrison.'     A  series 

cannot  be  discovered  without  the  assistance  of  a  guide,  not  being 
marked  by  even  a  headstone  and  the  initials  \V.  M.  This  is  not 
as  it  should  be;  and  I  am  sure  tliat  it  is  only  necessary  to  call 
the  attention  of  liis  surviving  friends  to  a  circumstince  so  little 
creditable  to  all  of  us,  to  have  this  n^proach  immediately  re- 
moved. The  grave  is  .situated  at  the  northeastern  corner  of  tiie 
burying-ground,  and  at  the  liend  of  tlie  road  which  leaiis  up  the 
hill,  to  the  right  hand.  It  is  a  little  triangular  space,  covered 
•with  weeds,  lying  between  the  tombs  of  Mr.  Wilham  Sloan,  on 
tUo  right,  anil  ilr.  Alexander  Patrick,  on  tae  left. 


41  MEMOIR. 

of  papers  published  in  The  Day,  ontitlcl '  Memoirs 
of  a  PaisU'v  i?;ulie,'  are  full  of  jrrave,  (]uiot,  exqui- 
site  hninor.      In   addition   to  these,  we  have  had 
occasion  to  see  fragments  of  a  prose  worlc  of  some 
extent,    wliich   Mr.  Motherwell   had,   wo   believe, 
almost  completed  for  thii  press.     It  is  an  embodi- 
ment of  the  old   wild  legends  of  the  Norsemen, 
(always  a  favorite  theme  with  the  author,)    and 
contains  passages  of  surpassing  splendor,  animated 
by  a  wayward  spirit,  half  meVriment,  half  pathos. 
j\Ir.  Motherwell  was  also  engaged  in  making  col- 
lections for  a  life   of   Tannahill, — a   work    much 
wanted,  and   which,  since  we  ha\e  lost  him,   we 
know  of  no  other  man  alive  able  to  supplv.     Mr. 
Motherwell  is  a  loss  in  his  own  peculiar  circle  of 
literature.^     He  will  be  missed  by  his  antiquarian 
and    poetical    associates.       But   he    will    be    more 
deeply   and   lastingly   missed   in  the   circle  of  his 
])ersonal  friends,  and  of  the  already  too  much  nar- 
rowed circle  of  his  family.     Tiiis  hurried  and  in- 
adequate   tribute    is    piid    to    him    by    one    who, 
decidedly  opposed  to   him  on   pnl)lic  grounds,  and 
j)laced   in   immeiliate  collision   with   him,  was  yet 
proud  to  call  him  his  friend,  and  laments  his  loss." 
In  personal  appearance,  iMotherwell  was  under- 
sized, not  exceeding,  I  should   tliink,  five  feet  five, 
or  tiiereby,  in  hcigiit;  but  he  was  vigorously  and 
well  formed,  and  possessed  great  muscular  strength. 
His  bust  was  that  of  a  large,  manly  figure,  the  de- 
ficiency in  his  stature  being,  as  generally  happens 
in  such  cases,  in  his  limbs,  which,  though  gracefully 
turned,  were  short.     His  head  was  large,  and  his 
brow   ample.      His   eyes,    which    wei-e  small  and 
di'e|)ly  set,  were  surmounted  by  bushr  cvehrows. 
His  fiice  was  square,   with  promnient  cheekbones, 
and  his  nose  wanting  in  symmetry.      His  mouth 
was,  perhaps,  the  most  unexceptional)l(;  feature  of 
his  countenance,  and   indicated  great  firmness,  as 
well  as  benevolence  of  charajter.     His  hair  was  of 


MKMOIR  45 

a  (laik  brown  color,  and,  besidfs  being  abundant  in 
quantity,  inclined  to  curl.  In  his  dress,  he  was 
neat  and  plain,  and  scrupulously  clean.  The 
vir/nelte  affixed  to  this  volume  is  an  excellent  like- 
ness, and  is  fitted  to  convey  a  faithful  impressi()n 
of  his  sreneral  appearance. 

In  his  manners  he  was  modest  and  unpretendincT, 
and  in  general  society  he  spoke  but  little.  His 
conversational  powers,  in  fact,  were  not  high;  but 
in  the  company  of  his  more  intimate  frieiuls  he 
was  free  and  unreserved,  and  entered  with  a  keen 
relish  into  the  amusements  of  the  hour.  When 
e.xcited,  as  he  was  apt  occasionally  to  be  when  the 
conversation  turned  upon  any  subject  in  which  he 
took  an  interest,  he  displayed  much  enthusiasm, 
and  threw  into  his  action  considerable  energy;  but 
this  seldom  happened,  and  only  in  moments  of  total 
relaxation  from  all  restraint.  He  was  decidedly 
social  in  his  tastes,  ami  had  nothing  of  the  ancho- 
rite about  him ;  and  at  one  period  of  his  life  he  was 
addicted  to  practical  joking.  Some  of  his  exploits 
in  this  way  were  amusing  enough ;  but  the  haijit 
was  ultimately  abandoned,  as  it  threatened  to  lead 
to  disagreeable  consequences,  and  was  improper  in 
itself  He  was  fond  of  manly  exercises,  such  as 
boxing,  in  which  he  took  lessons  from  a  Negro 
pugilist,  and  sword-playing,  in  the  niceties  of  which 
he  was  instructed  by  that  eminent  master  of  fence, 
]\I.  Foucart.  He  was  also  a  passionate  admirer  of 
the  military  art ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that, 
hail  circumstances  admitted  of  his  exhibiting  his 
military  virtues,  he  would  have  made  a  good  sol- 
dier. In  1820  he  served  in  the  Paisley  Rille  Corps, 
as  sergeant,  and  lattei-ly.  as  a  trooper,  in  the  regi- 
ment of  Renfrewshire  Yeomanry  Cavalry,  which 
was  conunanded  by  the  late  Sir  Michael  Shaw 
Stewart.  He  was  fond  of  this  kind  of  life,  and 
was  punctual  in  his  attendance  upon  the  Yeomanry 
balls  which  were  given  in  the  county.     It  would 


46  MEMOIR. 

aeem,  likewise,  that  he  was  a  nrood  rower,  but  T  do  not 
think  tliat  the  ocean  lia<l  many  attractions  for  him. 
In  hi>  relations  as  brother  and  t'riond  his  condnct 
was  irreproachable.  I  have  known  few  eqnally 
disinterested  men,  and  none  more  upriglit  or  hon- 
orable in  their  dealinirs  with  others.  He  coidd  not 
but  1)6  aware  that  he  possessed  ij;reat  ami  peeuliai 
powei's ;  but  he  never  betrayed  any  consciousness 
cf  this,  and  was  utterly  free  from  literary  vanity. 
Of  jealousy,  that  abidinjx  reproach  to  men  of  let- 
ters, he  had  not  one  particle ;  nor  do  I  remember 
ever  to  have  heard  him  utter  a  harsh  sentence  re- 
spectinjT  any  human  being.  His  political  antipa- 
thies were  strong,  but  his  personal  animosities  were 
weak ;  not  that  he  had  not  his  likings  and  dislik- 
ings,  like  other  men,  but  that  his  nature  was  too 
generous  to  adopt,  and  still  more  to  cherish,  un- 
kindly feelings  towards  any  one.  No  better  proof 
of  this  quality  could  be  given  than  this,  that  many 
of  his  most  intimate  and  best  loved  friends  were 
his  political  antagonists,  and  that  his  premature 
death  was  regi-etted  by  none  more  sincerely  than 
by  those  gentlemen,  who  knew  him  well  and 
esteemed  him  highly.  Of  this  fine  trait  of  char- 
acter, the  following  letter  affords  a  pleasing  illus- 
tration. Mr.  Carrick,  in  whose  behalf  it  was 
written,  was  a  meritoiious  but  uiisuccessfid  literary 
man.*  who  was  an  applicant  (or  the  oflicc  of  editor 
to  a  Kilmarnock  journal ;  and  it  will  be  seen  from 
it  that  Motherwell,  thou^di  d(!cidedly  opposed  to 
him  in  politics,  exerted  himself  strenuously  in  his 
favor. 

"CouKiKR  Office,  Glasgow, 
"  Xovember  28,  1833. 

"  To  Mr.  David  Robkuisox: — 
"  My  dkar  Sir, — Understanding  that  a  news- 
paper  is   about  to  be   established  in  Kilmarnock, 

•  Author  of  the  Life  of  .Sir  Williim  Wallace,  which  was  writ, 
ton  for  Coniitable's  Miscellaoy,  ia  1S25. 


MKMOIR.  47 

and  that  my  friond,  ^Ir.  J.  D.  Carrii-k.  (present 
editor  of  the  Perth  Advertiser,)  has  otVered  him- 
Belf  as  a  candidate  for  its  editorship,  I  wish  you 
would  interest  yourself  on  his  behalf  among  those 
who  may  have  the  appointment  in  their  hands. 

"  Unfortunately.  I  neither  know  the  proprietors 
of  the  projected  journal,  nor  any  person  of  influ- 
c  ace  in  Kilmarnock,  having  a  likelihood  of  being 
(  Dnnected  with  it,  otherwise  I  shoulil  have  pre- 
larred  addn.'ssing  them  personally  on  this  subject, 
in  place  of  through  you.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I  would 
fain  trust  that  my  disinterested  and  unsolicited 
opinion  of  the  talents  and  literary  attainments  of 
Mr.  Carrick,  in  whatever  shape,  laid  before  the 
proprietors,  may  be  of  some  use  to  a  most  deserv- 
ing individual  in  his  canvass. 

"  With  ]\Ir.  Carrick  and  with  his  writings,  both 
%>  a  literary  character,  and  as  the  conductor  of  a 
>ery  intelligent  weekly  paper,  I  have  been  long 
familiar;  and  to  the  taste,  tact,  judgment,  knowl- 
edge, and  research  displayed  in  these  writings,  1 
can  bear  the  most  unqualified  testimony.  Mr.  Car- 
rick and  I,  as  you  well  know,  have  the  misfortune 
to  be  opposed  to  each  other  in  political  sentiments ; 
but  that  circumstance  detracts  nothing  from  his 
merits  in  my  e}es.  Perhaps,  in  the  present  case, 
it  may  even  advance  his  interest;  for  I  am  given 
to  understand,  that  the  Kilmarnock  paper  is  to  be 
conducted  on  what  are  called  Liberal  or  Reform 
])rinriples,  and  to  these,  in  their  popular  acceptJi- 
tion,  I  have  never,  either  in  my  public  or  private 
capacity,  concealed  my  most  rooted  hostility.  If  I 
am  well  informed,  then,  as  to  the  political  vi(!ws 
entertained  by  the  proprietors  of  the  contemplated 
journal,  my  decided  conviction  is,  that  they  never 
could  light  upon  a  more  energetic  and  uncom- 
promising, and,  at  the  same  time,  prudent,  saga- 
cious, and  eniiglitened  ad\ocate  of  their  ])i-inciples, 
than  they  will  liiul  in  tiie  j>ersou  of  Mr.  Carrick. 


48  MEMOIR. 

"  In  the  management  of  a  paper  he  has  had 
large  experience  ;  his  taste  in  selection  is  excel- 
lent ;  and  in  (jetting  up  some  of  those  witty  and 
good-liumored  paragraphs,  which  conduce  so  much 
to  the  interest  of  the  columns  of  a  provincial 
paper,  and,  in  consequence,  extend  its  circulation, 
I  scarcely  know  his  equal.  ^ly  friend,  Macdiar- 
niid,  of  the  Dumfries  Courier,  has,  in  his  own 
peculiar  walk,  a  formidable  rival  in  Mr.  Carrick. 
As  to  iiis  eminent  qualifications  in  a  higher  point 
of  view,  his  historical  works  and  political  essays 
afTord  the  best  of  all  evidence  ;  but  as  these,  in  all 
probability,  will  be  submitted  to  the  committee  in- 
trusted with  the  nomination  of  editor,  1  need  not 
further  enlarge  on  them,  for  sure  I  am,  that  the 
committee  will  think  with  me,  that  they  every-  way 
support  ^Ir.  Carrick's  claims  to  extensive  literary 
and  political  actjuirements,  and  furnisli  the  best  of 
all  guaranties  lor  the  creditable  discharge  of  his 
duties  as  an  editor. 

"  My  dear  Sir,  in  conclusion,  I  have  only  again 
to  beg,  that  you  will  use  your  best  influence  to 
back  the  feeble  and  inadequate  testimony  I  have 
borne  to  the  abilities  of  a  common  friend. — of  one 
who,  in  every  relation  of  lite,  has  always  shown 
liimself  a  most  estimable  character. 
"  Yours  faithfully, 

"  \V.  Motherwell." 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  instances  of  this 
kind,  were  I  not  afraid  of  trespassing  upon  the  in- 
dulgence of  the  reader,  for  his  correspondence 
abounds  in  them  ;  but  1  cannot  pass  over  in  silence 
Lis  intimacy  with  R.  A.  Smith,  a  man  to  whom  he 
was  sincerely  attached,  and  with  whom,  till  death, 
he  cultivated  a  friendship  which  was  unbroken  by 
even  a  passing  cloud. 

Smith  was  boin  at  Rending,  in  Berkshire,  in 
177y.     Jlis  father  was  a  native  of  West  Calder,  in 


MKMOIR.  -19 

Lanarkshire,  and  his  mother  an  Englishwoman  of 
respectable  connections.  In  the  year  1773,  hi3 
lather  emigrated  to  England,  in  consequence  of 
the  dnlneas  of  the  silk-weaving  trade,  but  returned 
to  I'aisley  in  1800,  afler  an  absence  of  seventeen 
years,  bringing  with  him  his  son,  whom  he  intended 
to  educate'to  the  loom.  This,  however,  was  fouml 
to  be  impossible.  Nature  had  furnished  the  lad 
with  the  most  delicate  musical  sensibilities,  and,  af- 
ter an  inellectual  struggle  with  the  ruling  passion, 
music  became  the  business  of  his  life.  lie  attained 
to  consideral)le  provincial  distinction,  and  com- 
posed original  music  ibr  the  following  songs  of  the 
poet  Taiuiahill,  whose  intimate  friend  he  was:^ 
Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dumblane, — The  Lass  of  Ar- 
ranteenie,— The  Harper  of  Mull,— Langsyue^  be- 
side the  Woodland  Burn, — Our  Bonnie  Scots 
Lads,— Despairing  ]Mary,— Wi'  waefu'  heart  and 
sorrowin'  ee, — The  Maniac's  Song, — Poor  Tom's 
Farewell,— The  Soldier's  Widow,— and,  We'll 
meet  beside  the  Dusky  Glen. 

In  1823  he  removed  to  Edinburgh,  at  the  solici- 
tation of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Andrew  Thomson,  where 
he  led  the  choir  of  St.  George's  Church,  of  which 
Dr.  Thomson   was    the   incumbent,  and   whci-c   he 
died,  in  January,  182SJ.     Between  him  and  Moth- 
erwell there  existed  a  warm  friendship,  arising,  no 
doubt,    from    a   congeniality    of    tastes    on    many 
points;  but,  on  the  part  of  "the  hitter,  strengthened 
by  a  sincere  respect  for  the  virtues  as  well  as  the 
genius  of  the  man.     Smith  had  to  contend  throu;j:!i 
life,  not  only  with  narrow  means  and  domestic  dis- 
eomtbrt,  but  against  the  pressure  of  a  constitutional 
melancholy,  which  occasionally  impaired  the  vigor 
of  his  tine"^ faculties.     His  real  griefs — of  which  he 
had  a  full   share— were,   therefore,   increased   by 
some  that  were  imaginary  ;  and  he  was  obviously 
accustomed,  not  only  to  lean   upon    the  stronger 
mind  of  his  friend,  in   his  moments  of  depression, 
4 


50  MEMOIR. 

but  to  seek  for  sjTiipatliy  in  his  distress,  whicli,  it  is 
needless  to  add,  was  never  refused.  In  November, 
18'2G,  yinitli  thus  writes  to  him  : — 

"  1  would  have  written  you  long  ere  this,  but  have 
been  prevented  by  an  amount  of  domestic  distress 
suflicient  to  drive  all  romance  out  of"  my  mind  ;  and 
you  must  be  aware  that  without  a  considerable 
portion  of  that  delightful  commodity  no  good  nmsic 
can  be  engendered.  To  be  serious,  my  dear  friend, 
two  of  my  family,  my  eldest  daughter  and  youngest 
son,  are  at  this  moment  lying  dangerously  ill  of  the 
typhus  fever.  I  hope  that  I  may  escape  the  con- 
tagion, but  I  have  somctiines  rather  melancholy 
forebodings;  and  in  the  mid.-tof  all  this  I  am  obliged 
to  sing  professionally  every  day,  and  mask  my 
face  witli  smiles,  to  cover  the  throbbings  of  a  sear- 
ed and  lonely  heart." 

To  this  sad  effusion  Motherwell  returned  the 
following  characteristic  reply  : — 

"  Your  domestic  afflictions  deeply  grieve  me.  I 
trust  by  this  time,  however,  that  your  children 
have  mended,  and  that  you  are  no  sufferer  by 
their  malady.  Kennedy  and  I  have  been  shedding 
tears  over  your  calamities,  and  praying  to  Heaven 
that  you  may  have  strength  of  s])irils  to  bear  up 
under  such  severe  dispeiisati(jiis.  We  both,  albeit 
we  iiave  no  family  afflictions  to  mourn  over,  have 
yet  much  to  irritate  and  ve.'i  us, — much,  much 
indeed,  to  sour  the  temper  and  sadden  the  coun- 
tenance ;  but  these  things  nmst  be  borne  with 
patiently.     It  is  folly  of  the  worst  description,  to 

let  thought  kill  us  before  our  time I  hope 

to  hear  from  you  soon,  and  to  learn  that  you  are 
in  better  sjiirits,  ami  that  the  causes  whi.-h  have 
depi'essed  them  arc  hai)|)ily  removed.  Jvennedy 
joins  nje  in  warm  and  sincere  prayers  that  this 
may  speeiiily  be  the  case." 

>Slotlicrwell  was  decidedly  superstitious ;  that  is, 
he  had  an    absolute  and    unqualified   bchcf  in    the 


MEMOIR.  51 

r  ality  of  those  spectral  illusions,  which,  under 
■whatever  name  designated,  have  played  so  impor- 
tant a  part  in  the  histoi-y  of  human  credulity 
from  the  dawn  of  time  downwards.  Upon  this 
point  he  was  tenacious,  anil,  as  he  fortified  himself 
by  wiiat  he  supposed  to  be  facts,  he  was  wont  to 
wax  warm  in  defence  of  his  Rosicrucian  theory, 
when  it  chanced  to  be  assailed.  It  is  no  reproach 
to  his  memory  to  say  that  hia  logic  upon  such  a 
subject  was  necessarily  defective,  and  it  would  be 
altogether  unjust  to  condemn  as  a  r?eakness  his 
participation  in  an  infirmity  which  has  so  often 
attached  itself  to  the  highest  created  intelligences. 

His  habits  of  poetical  composition  were,  1  sus- 
pect, slow  and  even  laborious,  and  there  is  ample 
evidence  in  his  manuscripts  to  show  that  the  divine 
cestrwn  was  not  always  at  command  when  most 
needed.  That  he  prepared  his  productions  with 
great  care  before  he  committed  them  to  the  press, 
or  even  inserted  them  in  any  of  his  commonplace- 
books,  is  certain  ;  and  the  history  of  many  of  his 
freest  compositions,  could  it  be  obtained,  would 
demonstrate  that  he  never  forgot  the  Horatian  pre- 
cept, but  wisely  remembered  that  nescil  vox  missa 
reverli.  Of  Jeanie  Morrison,  for  example,  there 
exist  at  least  two  rough  draughts,  if  not  more,  in 
which  this  process  of  elaboration  is  very  distinct, 
and  out  of  whicli  the  poem  as  it  now  stands  was ' 
wrought.  There  are,  of  course,  different  versions 
of  particular  stanzas,  but  the  leading  ideas  and 
images  are  the  same  in  all ;  and  as  he  was  thirty- 
ibur  years  of  age  wlien  he  published  the  ballad  in 
its  present  form,  we  thus  see  that  this  single  pro- 
duction was,  in  a  certain  sense,  the  work  of  a  life.* 

In  his  habits  of  study  he  was  necessarily  desultory. 

*  I  would  not  be  understood  as  disputing  the  fact,  that  he 
Bketched  the  outUnn  of  this  poem  at  fourteen,  because  I  see  no 
ju.st  reason  to  doubt  it ;  but  the  earliest  copy  now  existing  waj 
written  when  he  was  eighteen,  or  perhaps  twenty. 


52  MEMOIK. 

No  one  who  is  engaged  in  the  active  business  of 
the   world  can   be  otherwise;   but  except   in  that 

f)articular  and  somewhat  narrow  department  of 
iterature  for  which  he  had  contracted  so  strong  a 
partiality  in  early  life,  it  cannot  be  said  of  iMother- 
well  that  he  was  a  "  well-read  "  man.  With  phys- 
ical science  he  was  but  slightly  acquainted,  and 
he  had  neglected  jjeneral  history,  includinjr  even 
that  of  his  own  country,  to  an  extraordinary  de- 
gree. From  some  peculiarity  of  temperament  which 
is  not  easily  explained,  he  preferred  such  wnters  as 
Holinshed  and  Stowe  to  Hume  and  Hallam ;  and 
the  only  modern  historical  Avork  of  any  note  that  I 
ever  recollect  to  have  heard  him  speak  of,  was 
Sharon  Turner's  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 
He  had  likewise  a  strong  distaste  to  what  is  com- 
monly callud  metaphysics,  and  particularly  for  the 
writers  of  the  Scotch  school,  of  whom  he  some- 
times spoke  in  terms  of  greater  confidence  than 
his  acquaintance  with  their  works  entitled  him  to 
do ;  but  he  professed  a  deep  reverence  for  Cole- 
ridge, whose  Friend  he  considei-ed  a  masterpiece 
of  philosophy.  I  do  not  recollect  of  ever  having 
heard  him  even  allude  to  Burke,  and  for  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  he  had  conceived  an  unreasonable  dis- 
like. These  carelessnesses  and  prejudices  are  to 
be  regretted,  since  they  tended  to  abridge  his 
knowledge  and  to  impair  his  usefulness ;  but  they 
are  probably  to  be  referred  to  the  circumstances 
in  which  he  was  placed,  rather  than  to  any  de- 
fect in  his  mental  constitution.  A  more  liberal 
intercourse  with  mankind  would  have  disabused 
him  of  many  of  those  prepossessions,  which  he 
liad  hastily  adopted,  and  had  little  temptation  to 
abandon,  and  his  better  nature  would  have  done 
the  rest. 

In  his  personal  tastes  and  feelings  he  was  essen- 
tially and  ardently  Scottish.  The  language  and 
literature  of  his  native  country  he  had  studied  with 


MEMOIE.  53 

care  and  success,  and  to  her  legendary  poetry  and 
metrical  traditions  he  attached  a  high  value.  The 
land  was  also  beautiful  in  his  eyes,  and  no  wander- 
ing minstrel  of  ancient  times  could  have  been 
impressed  with  a  loftier  sense  of  the  valor  of  the 
men  or  the  virtue  of  the  women  who  dwelt  within 
its  limits.  That  he  was  a  devout  admirer  of  exter- 
nal nature  his  poems  amply  testify.  The  vast  soli- 
tude of  the  universe  and  the  sublime  depths  of 
space  filled  his  soul  with  a  holy  awe  ;  and  whether  he 
looked  upon  the  heavens  above  with  their  countless 
myriads  of  stars,  or  upon  the  earth  beneath  with 
its  garment  of  green,  and  its  hills  and  valleys  and 
running  streams,  his  mind  was  equally  impressed 
with  the  majesty  and  power  of  that  great  Being 
who  made  and  sustains  all  things. 

0  God!  this  is  an  holy  hour: — 
Thy  breath  is  o'er  the  land: 

1  feel'it  in  each  little  flower 
Around  me  where  I  stand ; — 

In  all  the  moonshine  scattered  fair, 
Above,  below  me,  everywhere, — 
In  every  dew-bead  glistening  sheen, 
In  every  leaf  and  blade  of  green, — 
And  in  this  silence,  grand  and  deep. 
Wherein  thy  blessed  creatures  sleep.* 

An  elaborate  analysis  of  Motherwell's  character 
as  a  poet  would  not  be  compatible  with  the  objects 
and  limits  of  this  slight  sketch  ;  but  it  is  fortunately 
rendered  unnecessary  by  the  criticism  of  Professor 
Wilson,  which  appeared  in  Blackwood's  Magazine 
for  April,  1833. 

"  All  his  perceptions  are  clear,  for  all  his  senses 
are  sound.  He  has  fine  and  strong  sensibihties, 
and  a  powerful  intellect.  He  has  been  led  by  the 
natural  bent  of  his  genius  to  the  old  haunts  of 
inspiration, — the  woods  and    glens  of   his   nativ« 

•  Midnight  and  Moonshine. 


54  MEMOIR. 

country, —  and  his  ears  delight  to  drink  the 
music  of  her  old  songs.  Many  a  beautiful  ballad 
has  blended  its  pensive  and  plaintive  pathos  with 
his  daydreams,  and  while  reading  some  of  his  hap- 
piest effusions,  we  feel 

« The  ancient  spirit  is  not  dead, — 
Old  times,  we  say,  are  breathing  there.' 

"  His  style  is  simple,  but  in  his  tenderest  move- 
ments masculine ;  he  strikes  a  few  bold  knocks  at 
the  door  of  the  heart,  whicli  is  instantly  opened  by 
the  master  or  mistress  of  the  house,  or  by  son  or 
daughter,  and  the  welcome  visitor  at  once  becomes 
one  of  the  family."  * 

This  is  generous  praise,  but  not  more  generous 
than  just,  and  it  places  the  whole  case  before  U9 
by  a  few  vivid  strokes.  It  may  be  remarked,  how- 
ever, that  the  field  which  he  chose  for  the  exercise 
of  the  higher  efforts  of  his  genius  was  unappropri- 
ated by  any  name  of  marked  celebrity,  and  that 
there  was  both  originality  and  boldness  in  the 
thought,  that  he  could  win  his  way  to  fame  through 
apparently  so  unpromising  a  channel  as  the  Scan- 
dinavian mythology,  and  by  the  adaptation  to  mod- 
ern verse  of  the  stern  thoughts  and  sanguinary 
aspirations  of  the  Northern  Scalds.  It  Is  obvloua 
that,  in  so  daring  an  enterprise,  anything  short  of 
entire  success  would  have  been  fatal  to  the  repu- 
tation of  its  author,  and  that,  upon  a  theme  at 
once  so  novel  and  so  vast,  mediocrity  would  not 
liavc  been  tolerated  ;  and  it  has  always  appeared 
to  me,  that  to  have  triumphed  so  completely  over 
the  latent  prejudices  of  society,  and  to  have  ex- 
torted the  reluctant  praise  of  the  critical  world, 
was,  in  Motherwell's  circumstances,  the  strongest 

Eroof  he  could  give  of  the  vigor  and  elasticity  of 
is  powers.     Such  men  as  Wordsworth,  South ey, 

*  Blackwood's  Magazioe,  vol.  zxxiii.  p.  670. 


MEMOIK.  55 

and  Coleridge  could  afford  some  abatement  from 
that  full  harvest  of  renown  which  they  had  accumu- 
lated ;  but  to  a  person  in  Motherwell's  position  the 
ease  was  widely  different,  and  the  punishment  of 
failure  would  have  been  proportioned  in  its  sever- 
ity to  the  alleged  presumption  of  the  attempt.  He 
did  not  fail,  however,  nor — as  the  result  showed — ■ 
was  his  confidence  in  himself  overrated ;  and  his 
metrical  imitations  of  the  Sagas  are  not  only  dis- 
tinguished by  an  exact  fidelity  of  tone  and  senti- 
ment, but  are  considered  by  competent  judges  to 
be  fine  heroic  ballads,  which  display  energetic 
powers  of  description,  united  to  a  high  dramatic 
faculty.  Had  Gray  followed  out  his  original  inten- 
tion, and  given  to  the  world  that  "  History  of 
Poetr)',"  of  which  he  had  at  one  time  meditated  the 
composition,  his  successor  would  have  had  to  en- 
counter a  much  more  formidable  competition  than 
that  which  actually  awaited  him ;  but  he,  as  is  well 
known,  abandoned  the  design,  and  except  The 
Fatal  Sisters  and  The  Descent  of  Odin,  I  cannot 
call  to  mind  any  other  purely  English  poems  con- 
structed upon  a  Northern  basis.  It  may  argue  an 
undue  partialitj',  but  I  prefer  The  Battle-Flag  of 
Sigurd  to  either  of  Gray's  odes.* 

*  Had  the  intellect  of  Collios  preserved  its  balance,  the  Norse 
legends  would  have  afforded  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  those  ma- 
terials, in  which  his  genius  most  delighted.  "  He  loved  fairies, 
genii,  giants,  and  monsters  ;  he  delighted  to  rove  through  the 
meanders  of  enchantment,  to  gaze  on  the  magnificence  of  golden 
palaces,  to  repose  by  the  waterfalls  of  Elysian  gardens." — (John- 
son.) His  ode  on  The  Passions  shows  how  familiar  his  mind 
was  with  those  terrible  im.iges  in  which  we  naturally,  as  it  were, 
involve  the  harsher  emotions  of  the  soul;  and  it  is  probable, 
from  the  extent  and  variety  of  his  attainments,  and  his  allusion 
in  the  ode  on  the  popular  superstition  of  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land, inscribed  to  Mr.  Home,  to  those 

"  Old  Runic  bards 

With  uncouth  lyres,  in  many-colored  vest," 

that  he  was  not  unacquainted  with  the  mythical  treasures  of  the 
Bagas.  There  is  nothing  finer  or  more  vigorous  ia  the  language 
ban  his  description  of  ReTeuge : — 


56  MEMOIR. 

That  the  manners  of  the  Valhalla  and  the  ex- 
ploits of  the  Vikings  had  made  a  lasting  impres- 
sion upon  Motherwell's  imagination,  we  have 
abundant  proof  in  the  first  three  poems  of  this 
volume  ;  and  my  own  impression  is,  that  in  future 
times  his  lame  will  rest,  in  a  great  measure,  on 
these  splendid  specimens  of  warlike  invocation. 
As  he  comes  nearer  to  ordinary  life,  his  poetical 
individuality  insensibly  disappears,  and  the  "  un- 
couth lyre  "  of  the  "  Runic  bard "  is  exchanged 
for  the  softer  harp  of  the  modern  minstrel.  The 
old  Scottish  ballad  might  be  as  succesfuUy  imi- 
tatt>d,  perhaps,  by  men  of  far  inferior  capacity, 
and,  ex(juisite  as  some  of  his  lyrical  compositions 
are,  they  might  likewise  be  approached,  if  not  ex- 
celled ;  but  lor  the  conception  and  execution  of 
The  Battle-Flag  of  Sigurd,  The  Wooing  Song 
of  Jarl  Egill  Skallagrim,  and  The  Sword  Chan't 
of  Thorstein  Raudi,  a  special  inspiration  and  pe- 
culiar powers  were  required ;  and  I  will  venture 
to  predict  that  they  will  survive  the  chano-es  of 
time  and  the  caprices  of  fashion. 

One  of  his  most  prominent  defects  as  a  lyrical 
poet  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  assumption — for  it  was 
no  more — of  a  morbid  tone  of  leeling  respecting 
the  world  and  its  ways.     Doubtless, 

"  pictoribus  atque  poetis 
Quidlibet  audendi  semper  fuit  a3qua  potestas  " ; 

but  there  is  a  natural  limit  to  even  this  proverbial 

"  He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down, 

And,  \vith  a  withcrint;  look, 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  drejid, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sound  so  full  of  woe. 

And  over  and  anon  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat  ; 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 

Dej('cted  Pity,  at  his  side, 

Her  soul-subdning  voice  applied. 
Yet  still  lie  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from  his  bead.* 


MEMOIR.  57 

license,  and  a  perpetual  dirge  about  broken  vows, 
slighted  love,  and  human  selfishness  is  apt  to  en- 
gender the  idea,  that  the  man  who  thus  indulges 
in  habitual  lamentation  over  his  own  misfortunes 
must  have  been  less  discriminating  in  his  friend- 
ships, or  less  deserving  of  regard,  than  we"  could 
wish  him  to  have  been.  But  this  was  not  the  case 
with  William  Motherwell.  Few  men  have  en- 
joj'ed,  and  few  men  have  more  entirely  merited, 
the  strong  and  steady  attachment  of  those  with 
whom  they  associated  ;  and  if  life  brought  to  him 
its  share  of  sorrow  and  anxiety,  it  likewise  af- 
forded many  and  solid  compensations  for  his  suffer- 
ings, of  which  I  have  not  a  doubt,  he  was  fully 
sensible,  and  for  which,  I  have  as  httle  doubt,  he 
was  truly  thankful.     I  would  not  have  noticed  this 

Eeculiarity,  had  it  not  communicated  to  some  of 
is  effusions  an  air  of  harsh  exaggeration,  which 
was  really  foreign  to  his  modest  and  uncomplain- 
ing nature,  and  did  it  not  tend  to  create  the  belief, 
that  my  late  friend,  with  all  his  gifts,  was  deficient 
i-n  that  humility  of  mind  which  should  characterize 
a  wise  and  a  good  man.  This  Avas  not  so ;  and 
when  passages — I  regret  to  say  that  they  are  too 
numerous — do  occur  which  might  encourage  this 
notion,  let  me  hope  that  they  will  not  be  construed 
to  his  prejudice,  but  that  they  may  be  looked  upon 
as  mere  poetical  embellishments. 

For  the  occasional  defects  which  may  be  dis- 
covered in  the  mechanical  structure  of  his  verse, 
no  very  satisfactory  explanation  can  be  offered. 
He  had  made  poetry  and  its  laws  the  business  of 
his  life  ;  yet  imperfect  lines  and  prosaic  expressions 
do  occur  more  frequently  than  could  be  desired,  to 
mar  the  harmony  of  some  of  his  best  pieces,  and, 
in  certain  cases,  even  to  impair  their  sense.  The 
only  account  that  I  can  give  of  this  infirmity  is, 
that  his  ear  wanted  rhythmical  accuracy,  and  that, 
from  some  peculiarity  of  his  physical  organization, 


58  MEMOIR. 

lie  was  unable  to  appreciate  the  more  delicate 
modulations  of  sound.  He  was  eminently  un- 
musical;  not  that  he  disliked  music,  far  from  it; 
but  that  his  love  of  melody  did  not  counterbalance 
his  unacquaintance  with  the  rules  of  harmony,  of 
breaches  of  which  he  was  often,  though  uninten- 
tionally, guilty. 

Upon  the  whole,  his  place  as  a  minor  poet  is  a 
distinguished  one.  He  has  undoubtedly  enriched 
the  language  with  many  noble  specimens  of  manly 
song :  and  when  it  is  remembered  that  he  prosecut- 
ed his  poetical  studies  in  silence  and  retirement, 
animated  alone  by  the  love  of  his  art,  and  sustain- 
ed through  many  long  years  of  trial  and  of  toil  by 
the  distant  gleam  of  posthumous  fame,  it  will  not 
be  disputed  that  his  motives  to  action  were  exalt- 
ed, and  his  exertions  in  the  cause  of  human 
improvement  disinterested. 

Ossa  quieta,  precor,  tuta  requiescite  in  uma; 
Et  Bit  bimius  cineri  non  onerosa  tuo. 

J.  M'C. 

Gusaow,  December  23, 1846. 


POEMS. 


POEMS. 


THE  BATTLE-FLAG  OF  SIGQRD. 


The  eagle  hearts  of  all  the  Nortb 

Have  left  their  stormy  strand ; 

The  warriors  of  the  world  are  forth 

To  choose  another  land  ! 

Again  their  long  keels  sheer  the  wave, 

Their  broad  sheets  court  the  breeze ; 

Again  the  reckless  and  the  brave 

Ride  lords  of  weltering  seas. 

Nor  swifter  from  the  well-bent  bow 

Can  feathered  shaft  be  sped, 

Than  o'er  the  ocean's  flood  of  snow 

Their  snorting  galleys  tread. 

Then  lift  the  can  to  bearded  hp, 

And  smite  each  sounding  shield, 

Wassaile  !  to  every  dark-ribbed  ship, 

To  every  battle-field ! 
WO  proudly  the  Scalds  raise  their  voices  of  triumph, 
As  the  Northmen  ride  over  the  broad-bosomed  bil- 
low. 

II. 

Aloft,  Sigurdir's  battle-flag 

Streams  onward  to  the  land. 

Well  may  the  taint  of  slaughter  lag 

On  yonder  glorious  strand. 

The  waters  of  the  mighty  deep. 

The  wild  birds  of  the  sky, 


62  THE   BATTLE-FLAG   OF   SIGURD. 

Hear  it  like  vengeance  shoreward  sweep, 

Where  moody  men  must  die. 

The  waves  wax  wroth  beneath  our  keel,— 

The  clouds  above  us  lower, — 

They  know  the  battle-sign,  and  feel 

All  its  resistless  power  ! 

Who  now  uprears  Sigurdir's  flag, 

Nor  shuns  an  early  tomb  ? 

Who  shoreward  through  the  swelling  surge 

Shall  bear  the  scroll  of  doom  ? 
So  shout  the  Scalds,  as  the  long  ships  are  nearing 
The  low-lying  shores  of  a  beautiful  land. 

III. 

Silent  the  Self-devoted  stood 

Beside  the  massive  tree ; 

His  image  mirrored  in  the  flood 

Was  terrible  to  see  ! 

As  leaning  on  his  gleaming  axe, 

And  gazinsr  on  the  wave, 

His  fearless  soul  was  churning  up 

The  death-rune  of  the  brave. 

Upheaving  then  his  giant  form 

Upon  the  brown  bark's  prow. 

And  tossing  back  the  yellow  storm 

Of  hair  from  his  broad  brow  ; 

The  lips  of  song  burst  open,  and 

The  words  of  fire  rushed  out, 

And  thundering  through  that  martial  crew 

Pealed  Harald's  battle-shout ; — 
It  is  Harald  the   Dauntless   that  lifteth  his  great 

voice. 
As  the  Northmen  roll   on  with  the  doom-written 
banner. 

IV. 

"  I  bear  Sigurdir's  battle-flag 
Through  sunshine  or  through  gloom ; 
Through  swelling  surge  on  bloody  straad 


THE   BATTLE-FLAG   OF   SIGURD.  63 

I  plant  the  scroll  of  doom  ! 

On  Scandia's  loncst,  bleakest  waste, 

Beneath  a  starless  sky, 

The  Shadowy  Three  like  meteors  passed, 

And  bade  young  Harald  die ; — 

Thev  san2  the  war-deeds  of  his  sires, 

And  pointed  to  their  tomb; 

They  told  him  that  this  glory-flag 

Was  his  by  right  of  doom. 

Since  then,  where  hath  young  Harald  been, 

But  where  Jarl's  son  should  be  V 

'Mid  war  and  waves, — the  combat  keen 

That  raged  on  land  or  sea  ! " 
So  sings  the  fierce  Harald,  the  thirster  for  glorj'. 
As  his  hand  bears  aloft  the  dark  death-laden  ban- 
ner. 

V. 

"  Mine  own  death's  in  this  clenched  hand  ; 

I  know  the  noble  trust ; 

These  limbs  must  rot  on  yonder  strand, 

These  lips  must  lick  its  dust; 

But  shall  this  dusky  standard  quail 

In  the  red  slaughter-day  ; 

Or  shall  this  heart  its  purpose  fail, — 

This  arm  forget  to  slay  ? 

I  trample  down  such  idle  doubt ; 

Harald's  high  blood  hath  sprung 

From  sires  whose  hands  in  martial  bout 

Have  ne'er  belied  their  tongue  ; 

Nor  keener  from  their  castled  rock 

Rush  eagles  on  their  prey, 

Than,  panting  for  the  battle-shock. 

Young  Harald  leads  the  way." 
It  is  thus  that  tall  Harald,  in  terrible  beauty, 
Pours  forth  his  big  soul  to  the  joyance  of  heroes. 

VI. 

"  The  ship-borne  warriors  of  the  North, 
The  sons  of  AVoden's  race, 


64  THE   BATTLE-FLAG   OF   SIGURD. 

To  battle  as  to  feast  go  forth, 
With  stern  and  cliangeless  face ; 
And  I,  the  last  of  a  great  line, 
The  Self-devoted,  long 
To  lift  on  high  the  Runic  sign 
Which  gives  my  name  to  song. 
In  battle-field  young  Harald  falls 
Amid  a  slaughtered  foe. 
But  backward  never  bears  his  flag. 
While  streams  to  ocean  flow  ; — 
On,  on  above  the  crowded  dead 
This  Runic  scroll  shall  flare, 
And  round  it  shall  the  lightnings  spread, 
From  swords  that  never  spare." 
So  rush  the  hero-words  from  the  death-doomed  one, 
While  Scalds  harp  aloud  the  renown  of  his  fathers. 


vn. 

"  Flag  !  from  your  folds,  and  fiercely  wake 

War-music  on  the  wind. 

Lest  tenderest  thoughts  should  rise  to  shako 

The  sternness  of  my  mind ; 

Brynhilda,  maiden  meek  and  fair, 

Pale  watcher  by  the  sea, 

I  hear  thy  wailings  on  the  air, 

Thy  heart's  dirge  sung  for  me  : — 

In  vain  thy  milk-white  bands  are  wrung 

Above  the  salt  sea  foam ; 

The  wave  that  bears  me  from  thy  bower 

Shall  never  bear  me  home  ; 

Brj'nhilda  !  seek  another  love, 

But  ne'er  wed  one  like  me. 

Who  death  foredoomed  from  above 

Joys  in  his  destiny." 
Thus  mourned   vouns  llarald   as   he  thought  on 

Brynhilda, 
While  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  which  glittered,  but 
fell  not. 


THE   BATTLE  1  LAG   OF   SIGURD.  65 


Vlir. 

♦'  On  sweeps  Sigurdir's  battle-flag, 

The  scourge  of"  far  from  shore  ; 

It  dashes  throu'rh  the  seethinsr  foam, 

But  I  return  no  more  ! 

Wedded  unto  a  fatal  bride, — 

Boune  for  a  bloody  bed, — 

And  battling  for  her,  side  by  side. 

Young  Ilarald's  doom  is  sped  ! 

In  starkest  fight,  where  kemp  on  kemp 

Reel  headlong  to  the  grave, 

There  Ilarald's  axe  shall  ponderous  ring, 

There  Sigurd's  flag  shall  wave ; — 

Yes,  underneath  this  standard  tall, 

Beside  this  fateful  scroll, 

Down  shall  the  tower-like  prison  fall 

Of  Harald's  haughty  soul." 
So    sings    the    Death-seeker,    while    nearer    and 

nearer 
The  fleet  of  the  Northmen  bears  down  to  the 
shore. 

IX. 

"  Green  lie  those  thickly  timbered  shores 
Fair  sloping  to  the  sea ; 
They're  cumbered  with  the  harvest  stores 
That  wave  but  for  the  free : 
Our  sickle  is  the  gleaming  sword. 
Our  garner  the  broad  siiield, — 
Let  peasants  sow,  but  still  he's  lord 
Who's  master  of  the  field  ; 
Let  them  come  on,  the  bastard-born, 
Each  soil-stained  churl ! — alack  ! 
Whav  gain  they  but  a  splitten  skull, 
A  sod  for  their  base  back  ? 
They  sow  for  us  these  goodly  lands, 
We  reap  them  in  our  might. 
Scorning  all  title  but  the  brands 
That  triumph  in  the  fight ! " 
5 


66  THE   BATTLE-FLAG    OF   SIGURD. 

It  was  thus  the  land-winners  of  old  gained  thelt 

glory, 
And  gray  stones  voiced  their  praise  in  the  bays  of 

fair  isles. 

X. 

"  The  rivers  of  yon  island  low 

Glance  redly  in  the  sun, 

But  ruddier  still  they're  doomed  to  glow, 

And  deeper  shall  they  run  ; 

The  tori-ent  of  proud  life  shall  swell 

Each  river  to  the  brim, 

And  in  that  spate  of  blood,  how  well 

Tlie  headless  corpse  will  swim  ! 

The  smoke  of  many  a  shepherd's  cot 

Curls  from  each  peopled  glen  : 

And,  hark  !  the  song  of  maidens  mild,  - 

The  shout  of  joyous  men  ! 

But  one  may  hew  the  oaken  tree, 

The  other  shape  the  shroud ; 

As  the  Landeyda  o'er  the  sea 

Sweeps  like  a  tempest  cloud  " : — 
So  shouteth  fierce  Harald, — so  echo  the  Northmen. 
As   shoreward   their    ships    like    mad    steeds    are 
careerintr. 

XI. 

*'  Sigurdir's  battle-flag  is  spread 
Abroad  to  the  blue  sky. 
And  spectral  visions  of  the  dead 
Are  trooping  grimly  by ; 
The  spirit-heralds  rush  before 
Harald's  destroying  brand, 
Tlusy  hover  o'er  yon  fated  shore 
And  death-devoted  band. 
Marshal  stout  Jarls  your  battle  fast ! 
And  fire  each  beacon  height, 
Our  galleys  anchor  in  the  sound, 
Our  banners  heave  in  sight ! 
And  through  the  surge  and  arrowy  shower 


I 


SONG    OF   JARL    KGILL    SKALLAGRIM.  67 

That  rains  on  this  broad  shield, 
Ilarald  ii{tlifts  the  sisja  of  power 
AVhich  rules  the  battle-field  !  " 

So  cries  the  Death-doomed  on  the  red  strand  of 
slaughter, 

While  the  helmets  of  heroes  like  anvils  are  rinsing. 

XII. 

On  rolled  the  Northmen's  war,  above 

The  Raven  Standard  flew, 

Nor  tide  nor  tempest  ever  strove 

AVith  veniicanee  half  so  true. 

'Tis  Ilarald, — 'tis  the  Sire  bereaved, — 

Who  goads  the  dread  career. 

And  high  amid  the  flashing  storm 

The  flag  of  doom  doth  rear. 

*'  On,  on,"  the  tall  Death-seeker  cries, 

"  These  earth-worms  soil  our  heel. 

Their  spear-points  crash  like  crisping  ice 

On  ribs  of  stubborn  steel ! " 

Hurra !  hurra  !  their  whirlwinds  sweep, 

And  Harald's  fate  is  sped  ; 

Bear  on  the  flag, — he  goes  to  sleep 

With  the  life-scorning  dead. 
Thus  fell  the  young  Ilarald,  as  of  old  fell  his  sires, 
And  the  briglit  hall  of  heroes  bade  hail  to  his  spirit. 


THE   WOOING   SONG   OF  JARL   EGILL 
SKALLAGRIM. 

Bright  maiden  of  Orkney, 

Star  of  the  blue  sea  ! 

I've  swept  o'er  the  waters 

To  gaze  upon  thee  ; 

I've  left  spoil  and  slaughter, 

I've  left  a  far  strand, 

To  sing  how  I  love  thee, 


68  THE    WOOING    SOXG    OF 

To  kiss  thy  small  hand  ! 
Fair  daughter  of  Einar, 
Golden-haired  maid  ! 
The  lord  of  yon  brown  bark, 
And  lord  of  this  blade, — 
The  joy  of  the  ocean, 
Of  warfare  and  wind, — 
Hath  bonne  him  to  woo  thee, 
And  thou  must  be  kind. 
Sc  stoutly  Jarl  Egill  wooed  Torf  Einar's  daughter 

In  Jutland,  in  Iceland, 
On  Neustria's  shore. 
Where'er  the  dark  billow 
My  gallant  bark  bore. 
Songs  spoke  of  thy  beauty, 
Harps  sounded  thy  praise. 
And  my  heart  loved  thee  long  ere 
It  thrilled  in  thy  gaze: 
Ay,  daughter  of  Einar, 
Right  tall  niayst  thou  stand ; 
It  is  a  Vikingir 
Who  kisses  thy  hand; 
It  is  a  Vikingir 
That  bends  his  proud  knee, 
And  swears  by  Great  Freya 
His  bride  thou  must  be  ! 
Bo  Jarl  Egill  swore  when  his  great  heart  was  fullest. 

Thy  white  arms  are  locked  in 
Broail  bracelets  of  gold  ; 
'J'liv  girdle-stead's  gleaming; 
With  treasures  untold ; 
The  circlet  that  binds  up 
Thy  long,  yellow  Iiair, 
Is  starred  thick  with  jewels, 
That  bright  are  and  rare ; 
But  gifts  yet  more  princely 
Jarl  E<'\\[  bestows: 


JARL    EGILL    SKALLAGKIM.  69 

For  girdle,  his  great  arm 
Around  thee  he  throws ; 
The  bark  of  a  sea-king, 
For  palace,  gives  he, 
While  mad  waves  and  winds  shall 
Thy  true  subjects  be. 
So  richl)-  Jarl  Egill  endowed  his  bright  bride. 

Nay,  frown  not,  nor  shrink  thus, 
Nor  toss  so  thy  head, 
'Tis  a  Vikingir  asks  thee, 
Land-maiden,  to  wed ! 
He  skills  not  to  woo  thee. 
In  trembling  and  fear, 
Though  lords  of  the  land  may 
Thus  troop  with  the  deer. 
The  cradle  he  rocked  in 
So  sound  and  so  long. 
Hath  framed  him  a  heart 
And  a  hand  that  are  strong : 
He  comes  then  as  Jarl  should, 
Sword  belted  to  side. 
To  win  thee  and  wear  thee 
With  glory  and  pride. 
So  sternly  Jarl  Egill  wooed,  and  smote  his  long 
brand. 

Thy  father,  thy  brethren, 
Thy  kin,  keep  from  me 
The  maiden  I've  sworn  shall 
Be  Queen  of  the  sea ! 
A  truce  with  that  folly, — 
Yon  sea-strand  can  show 
If  this  eye  missed  its  aim. 
Or  this  arm  failed  its  blow: 
I  had  not  well  taken 
Three  sti-ides  on  this  land. 
Ere  a  Jarl  and  his  six  sons 
In  death  bit  the  sand. 


70  THE    WOOING   SONG    OF 

Nay,  weep  not,  pale  maid,  though 
In  battle  should  fall 
The  kenips  who  would  keep  thy 
Brideirroom  from  the  hall. 
So  carped  Jarl  Egill,  and  kissed  the  bright  weeper. 

Through  shadows  and  horrors, 
In  worlds  undergi-ound, 
Through  sounds  that  appall 
And  tlirough  sights  that  confound, 
I  sought  the  Weird  women 
Witlun  their  dark  coll, 
And  made  them  surrender 
Futui'ily's  spell ; 
I  made  them  rune  over 
The  dim  scroll  so  free, 
And  mutter  how  fate  sped 
With  lovers  like  me  ; 
Yes,  maiden,  I  forced  them 
To  read  forth  my  doom, 
To  say  how  I  should  fare 
As  jolly  bridegroom. 
So  Jarl   Egill's    Ibve    dared    the   world    of   grim 
shadows. 

They  waxed  and  they  waned, 
They  passed  to  and  fro, 
VV^Iiile  lurid  fires  gleamed  o'er 
Their  faces  of  snow  ; 
Their  stony  eyes,  moveless. 
Did  glare  on  me  long, 
Tlien  sullen  they  chanted  : 
"  The  Sword  and  the  Song 
Prevail  with  the  gentle. 
Sore  chasten  the  rude. 
And  sway  to  their  purpose 
Each  evil-sliaped  mood  !  " 
Fair  daughter  of  Einar, 
I've  sung  the  dark  lay 


JARL   KGII.L   SKALLAGRIM.  71 

That  tlifi  Weird  sisters  runed,  and 
^Miich  thou  must  obey. 
So  fondly  Jarl  Egill  loved  Einar's  proud  daughter 

The  curl  of  that  proud  lip, 
The  flash  of  that  eye, 
The  swell  of  that  bosom. 
So  full  and  so  high, 
Like  foam  of  sea-billow. 
Thy  white  bosom  shows, 
Like  flash  of  red  levin 
Thine  eagle  eye  glows: 
Ha !  firmly  and  boldly, 
So  stately  and  free, 
Thy  foot  treads  this  chamber. 
As  bark  rides  the  sea : 
This  likes  me, — this  likes  me, 
Stout  maiden  of  mould, 
Thou  wooest  to  purpose ; 
Bold  hearts  love  the  bold.         [maiden. 
So  shouted  Jarl   Egill,   and   clutched  the  proud 

Away  and  away  then, 
I  have  thy  small  hand  ; 
Joy  with  me, — our  tall  bark 
Now  bears  toward  the  strand  ; 
I  call  it  the  Raven, 
The  wing  of  black  night, 
That  shadows  forth  ruin 
O'er  islands  of  light : 
Once  more  on  its  long  deck. 
Behind  us  the  gale, 
Thou  slialt  see  how  before  it 
Great  kingdoms  do  quail : 
Thou  shalt  see  then  how  truly, 
]\Iy  noble-souled  maid, 
The  ransom  of  kings  can 
Be  won  by  this  blade. 
So  bravely  Jarl  Egill  did  soothe  the  pale  trembler. 


72  THE   SWOHD    CHANT   OF 

Ay,  gaze  on  its  large  hilt, 
One  wedge  of  red  gold ; 
But  dote  on  its  blade,  gilt 
With  blood  of  the  bold. 
The  hilt  is  right  seemly, 
But  nobler  the  blade. 
That  swart  Velint's  hammer 
With  cunning  spells  made  ; 
I  call  it  the  Adder, 
Death  lurks  in  its  bite. 
Through  bone  and  proof-harnes9 
It  scatters  pale  light. 
Fair  daughter  of  Einar, 
Deem  high  of  the  fate 
That  makes  thee,  like  this  blade, 
Proud  Egill's  loved  mate  ! 
So  Jarl  Egill  bore  off  Torf  Einar's  bright  daugiitw 


THE    SWORD    CHANT    OF    THORSTEUJ 
RAUDI. 

*Ti8  not  the  gray  hawk's  flight 

O'er  mountain  and  mere  ; 
'Tis  not  the  fleet  hound's  course 

Tracking  the  doer ; 
'Tis  not  the  light  hoof  print 

Of  black  steed  or  gray. 
Though  sweltering  it  gallop 

A  long  sununer's  day  ; 
Which  mete  forth  the  Lordshi/w 

I  challenge  as  mine  ; 
Ha !  ha !  'tis  the  good  brand 
I  clutch  in  my  strong  baud. 
That  can  tiicir  broad  raarcbAS 

And  lunnbers  define. 
Land  Giver  !  I  kiss  thee. 


TIIORSTEIN    RAUDI.  73 

Dull  builders  of  hou?c;s, 

Base  lillers  of  I'ivrtli, 
Gaping,  ask  me  wliat  lordships 

I  owned  at  my  birth  ; 
But  the  [)ale  fools  wax  mute 

When  I  point  with  my  sword 
East,  west,  north,  and  south, 

Shouting,  "  There  am  I  Lord  ! " 
Wold  and  waste,  town  and  tower, 

Hill,  valley,  and  stream, 
Trembling,  bow  to  my  sway 
In  the  fierce  battle-fray, 
AVhcn  the  star  that  rules  Fate  is 

This  falchion's  red  gleam. 
Mighty  Givek  !  I  kiss  thee. 

I've  heard  great  harps  sounding, 

In  brave  bower  and  hall, 
I've  drank  the  sweet  music 

That  bright  lips  let  fall, 
I've  hunted  in  greenwood, 

And  heard  small  birds  sing  ; 
But  away  with  this  idle 

And  cold  jargoning ; 
The  music  I  love  is 

The  shout  of  the  brave. 
The  yell  of  the  dying, 
The  scream  of  the  ilying. 
When  this  arm  wields  death's  sickle, 

And  earner's  the  grave. 
Joy  Givek  !  I  kiss  thee. 

Far  isles  of  the  ocean 

Thy  lightning  have  known, 
And  wide  o'er  the  mainland 

Thy  liorrors  have  shone. 
Great  sword  of  my  ftither, 

Stern  joy  of  his  hand, 
Thou  hast  carved  his  name  deep  on 


74      SWORD    CHAXT   OF    THORSTEIN    RATJDI. 

The  stranger's  rod  strand, 
And  won  him  the  glory 

Of  undying  song. 
Keen  cleaver  of  gay  crests, 
Sharp  piercer  of  broad  breasts, 
Grim  slayer  of  heroes. 

And  scourge  of  the  strong. 
Fame  Giveu  !  I  ki.ss  thee. 


In  a  love  more  abiding 

Than  that  the  heart  knows 
For  maiden  more  lovely 

Than  summer's  first  rose. 
My  heart's  knit  to  thine. 

And  lives  but  for  thee; 
In  dreainingsof  gladness, 

Thou'rt  dancing  with  me 
Brave  measures  of  madness 

In  some  battle-field, 
Whei'e  armor  is  ringing 
And  noble  blood  springing, 
And  cloven,  yawn  helmet, 

Stout  liauberk,  and  shield. 
Death  Giveu  !  I  kiss  thee. 

The  smile  of  a  maiden's  eye 

Soon  may  depart ; 
And  light  is  the  faith  of 

Fair  woman's  heart ; 
Changeful  as  light  clouds, 

And  wayward  as  wind, 
Be  the  passions  that  govern 

Weak  woman's  mind. 
But  thy  metal's  as  true 

As  its  polish  is  bright; 
Wlicn  ills  wax  in  number, 
'J'hy  love  will  not  slumber. 
But,  starlike,  burns  fiercer, 

The  darker  the  night. 
IlEAJtT  Glauueneii  !  I  kiss  thee. 


JEANIE   MOIIRISON.  7ft 

My  kindred  have  perished 

By  war  or  by  wave, — 
Now,  c'liildless  and  sireless, 

I  long  tor  the  grave. 
When  the  path  of  our  glory 

Is  shadowed  in  death, 
With  me  thou  wilt  slumber 

Below  the  brown  heath  ; 
Thou  wilt  rest  on  my  bosom, 

And  with  it  decay, — 
While  harps  shall  be  ringing, 
And  Scalds  shall  be  singing 
The  deeds  we  have  done  in 

Our  old  fearless  day. 
Song  Giver  !  I  kiss  thee. 


JEANIE  MORRISON. 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west. 

Through  mony  a  weary  way ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day  ! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  cen  wi'  tears: 
Thoy  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears. 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 
'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 


4 


76  JEANIE   MORRISON. 

Sweet  time, — sad  time !  twa  bairns  at  scule 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart !  1 

'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ac  laigh  bink,  " 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  evermair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet. 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  tliy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

O,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame. 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans  laughin'  said, 

We  cleeked  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes, — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-time  and  o'  thee. 
O  morn  in'  life  !  O  morn  in'  luve  1 

O  lichtsome  days  and  lang. 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang! 

O,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun. 
To  wander  by  the  grc^cn  burnside,  ' 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 


JEAKIE   MORRISOX.  77 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  tlie  irloaniin  o'  the  wood 
The  throssil  whiisslit  sweet ; 

The  throssU  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sanu  to  the  trees, 
And  we  witli  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  liannonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn. 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baitb 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nana 

Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled, — unsung  ! 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earhest  thochts. 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
O,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
O,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne  ? 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  tliat  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins. 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 


78         MY   HEID   IS   TAKE    TO   REND,   WILLIE. 

O  flear,  dear  Jcanie  IMorrison, 

Since  wo  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 
But  I  couhl  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  die, 
Did  I  hut  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  me ! 


MY  HEID  IS  LIKE  TO  REND,  WILLIE. 

My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break, — - 
I'm  wearin'  aff  my  feet,  Willie, 

I'm  dyiu'  for  your  sake  ! 
O,  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane, — 
O,  say  ye'll  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  deid  and  gane  1 

It's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  grief  maun  ha'e  its  will, — 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest. 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 
And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair  ! 

I'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 
For  the  last  time  in  my  life, — 

A  pair  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 
A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 

Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart, 
And  press  it  mair  and  mair, — 


79 


Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 
Sae  Strang  is  its  despair. 

O,  wae's  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

When  Ave  thegither  met, — 
O,  wae's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set ! 
O,  wae's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae, — 
And  wae's  me  for  the  destinie 

That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae ! 

O,  dinna  mind  my  words,  Willie, 

I  downa  seek  to  blame, — 
But  O,  it's  hard  to  live,  Willie, 

And  dree  a  warld's  shame  ! 
Het  tears  are  hailin'  ower  your  cheek, 

And  hailin'  ower  your  chin  ; 
Why  weep  ye  sae  for  worthlessness, 

For  sorrow,  and  for  sin  ? 

I'm  weary  'o  this  warld,  Willie, 

And  sick  wi'  a'  I  see, — 
I  canna  live  as  I  ha'e  lived. 

Or  be  as  I  should  be. 
But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine, — 
And  kiss  ance  mair  the  white,  white  cheek. 

Ye  said  was  red  langsyne. 

A  stoun'  gaes  through  my  heid,  Willie, 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart, — 
O,  hand  me  up  and  let  me  kiss 

Thy  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 
Anither,  and  anither  yet ! — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break  ! — 
Fareweel !  fare  w  eel !  through  yon  kirk-yard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake  ! 


80  THE    madman's   love. 

The  lav'rock  in  the  lift,  AVillie, 

That  lilts  far  ower  our  heid, 
Will  sing  the  morn  as  mernlie 

Abune  the  clay-oauld  deid  ; 
And  this  green  turf  we're  sittin'  on, 

Wi  de\v-dra])s  shinunerin'  sheen, 
Will  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 

As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

But  O,  remember  me,  Willie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be, — 
And  O,  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart. 

That  ne'er  luvit  ane  but  thee  ! 
And  O,  think  on  the  caukl,  cauld  mools, 

That  file  my  yellow  hair, — 
That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin, 

Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair  I 


THE  MADMAN'S  LOVE. 

IIo  !  Flesh  and  Blood  !  sweet  Flesh  and  Blood 

As  ever  strode  on  earth  1 
Welcome  to  AVater  and  to  Wood, — 

To  all  a  Madman's  mirth. 
This  tree  is  mine,  this  leafless  tree 

That's  writhen  o'er  the  linn ; 
The  stream  is  mine,  that  fitfully 

Pours  forth  its  sullen  din. 
Their  lord  am  1 ;  and  still  my  dream 
Is  of  this  Tree, — is  of  that  Stream. 

The  Tree,  the  Stream, — a  deadly  Twain  ! 

They  will  not  live  apart ; 
The  one  rolls  thundering  through  my  brain, 

The  other  sniitca  my  heart: 


THE    madman's    love.  8J 

Ay,  thia  same  leafless,  fire-scathed  tree, 

Tlmt  growctli  by  the  rock, 
Shakes  its  old,  sapless  arms  at  me, 

And  would  my  madness  mock  ! 
The  slaves  are  saucy, — well  they  know 
Good  service  did  they  long  ago. 

I've  lived  two  lives:  The  first  is  past 

Some  hundred  years  or  more  ; 
But  still  the  present  is  o'ercast 

\Vith  visionings  of  yore. 
This  tree,  this  rock,  that's  cushioned  sweet 

With  tufts  of  savory  thyme, 
That  unseen  river,  which  doth  greet 

Our  ears  with  its  rude  rhyme. 
Were  then  as  now, — they  form  the  chain 
That  links  the  present  with  past  pain. 

Sweet  Flesh  and  Blood  !  how  deadly  chill 

These  milk-white  fingers  be  I 
The  feathery  ribs  of  ice-bound  rill 

Seem  not  so  cold  to  me  ; — 
But  press  them  on  this  burning  brow 

Which  glows  like  molten  brass, 
'Twill  thaw  them  soon  ;  then  thou  shalt  know 

How  ancient  visions  pass 
Before  mine  eyes,  like  shapes  of  life, 
Kindling  old  loves  and  deadly  strife. 

Drink  to  me  first ! — nay,  do  not  scorn 

These  sparkling  dews  of  night ; 
I  pledge  thee  in  the  silver  horn 

Of  yonder  moonlet  bright; 
'Tis  stinted  measure  now,  but  soon 

Thy  cup  shall  overflow  ; 
It  half  was  spilled  two  hours  agone, 

That  little  flowers  might  grow, 
And  weave  for  me  fine  robes  of  silk ; 
For  whirh  good  deed,  stars  drop  them  milk. 
'e 


S2  THE   MADMAN'S   LOVE. 

IJay,  take  the  horn  into  thy  hand, 

Tlie  goodly  silver  horn. 
And  quaff'  it  off".     At  my  command 

Each  flower-cup,  ere  the  morn, 
Shall  brimful  be  of  glittering  dews, 

And  then  we'll  have  large  store 
Of  heaven's  own  vintage  ripe  for  use, 

To  pledge  our  healths  thrice  o'er; 
So  skink  the  can  as  maiden  free. 
Then  troll  the  merry  bowl  to  me ! 

Hush  ! — drink  no  more  !  for  now  the  trees, 

In  yonder  grand  old  wood. 
Burst  forth  in  sinless  melodies, 

To  cheer  my  solitude  ; 
Trees  sing  thus  every  night  to  me, 

So  mournfully  and  slow, — 
They  think,  dear  hearts,  'twere  well  for  me, 

Could  lai-ge  tears  once  forth  flow 
From  this  hard  frozen  eye  of  mine. 
As  freely  as  they  stream  from  thine. 

Ay,  ay,  they  sing  right  passing  well, 

And  j)leasantly  in  tune. 
To  midnight  winds  a  canticle 

That  floats  up  to  the  moon  ; 
And  she  goes  wandering  near  and  far 

'J'hrough  yonder  vaulted  skies, 
No  nook  whereof  but  hath  a  star 

Shed  for  me  from  her  eyes ; — 
She  knows  I. cannot  weep,  but  she 
Weeps  worlds  of  light  for  love  of  me  1 

Yes^  in  her  bower  of  clouds  she  weeps 

Night  after  night  for  mo, — 
The  lonely  man  that  sadly  keeps 

Watch  by  the  blasted  tree. 
She  sj)reads  o'er  these  lean  ribs  her  beams, 

To  scare  the  cutting  cold ; 


THE    madman's    love.  83 

She  lends  me  lljjlit  to  read  my  dreams, 

And  rightly  to  unfold 
The  mysteries  that  make  men  mad, 
Or  wise,  or  wild,  or  good,  or  bad. 

So  lovingly  she  shines  through  me, 

Without  me  and  within, 
That  even  tiiou,  methlnks,  might'st  see, 

Beneath  this  flesh  so  thin, 
A  heart  that  like  a  ball  of  fire 

Is  ever  blazing  there. 
Yet  dieth  not ;  for  still  the  lyre 

Of  heaven  soothes  its  despair, — 
The  lyre  that  sounds  so  sadly  sweet, 
When  winds  and  woods  and  waters  meet. 

Hush  !  hush  !  so  sang  yon  ghastly  wood, 

So  moaned  the  sullen  stream, 
One  night,  as  two  on  this  rock  stood 

Beneath  this  same  moonbeam : — 
Nay,  start  not ! — one  was  Flesh  and  Blood, 

A  dainty,  straight-limbed  dame, 
That  clung  to  me,  and  sobbed, — O  God ! 

Struggling  with  maiden  shame. 
She  faltered  forth  her  love,  and  swore, — 

"  Ox  LAND  OK  SEA,  TIIIXE  EVERMORE  !" 

By  Wood,  by  Water,  and  by  Wind, 

Yea,  by  the  blessed  light 
Of  the  brave  moon,  that  maiden  kind 

Eternal  faith  did  plight ; 
Yea,  by  the  rock  on  which  we  stood, — 

This  altar-stone  of  yore, — 
That  loved  one  said,  "  On  land  or  flood, 

Thine,  thine  for  evermore  !  " 
The  earth  reeled  round,  1  gasped  for  breath, 
I  loved,  and  was  beloved  till  death  1 

I  felt  upon  my  brow  a  kiss, 
Upon  my  cheek  a  tear ; 


84  THE   MADMAIi'S   LOVE. 

I  felt  that  nnw  life'3  sum  of  bliss 
Was  more  than  heart  could  bear. 

Life's  sum  of  bliss  ?  say  rather  pain, 
For  heart  to  find  its  mate, 

To  love,  and  be  beloved  again. 
Even  when  tlie  hand  of  Fate 

Motions  farewell  I— and  one  must  be 

A  wanderer  on  the  faithless  sea. 

Ay,  Land  or  Sea !  for,  mark  me  now, 

Next  morrow  o'er  the  foam, 
Sword  girt  to  side,  and  helm  on  brow, 

I  left  a  sorrowing  home  ; 
Yet  still  I  lived  as  very  part 

Even  of  this  sainted  rock, 
Where  first  that  loved  one's  tristful  heart 

Its  secret  treasure  broke 
In  my  love-thirsting  ear  alone. 
Here,  here,  on  this  huge  altar-stone. 

Hear'st  thou  the  busy  sounds  that  come 

From  yonder  glittering  shore: 
The  madness  of  the  doubling  drum, 

The  naker's  sullen  roar, — 
The  wild  and  shnlly  strains  that  swell 

From  each  bright,  brassy  horn, — 
The  fluttering  of  each  penoncel 

By  knightly  lance  upborne, — 
The  clear  ring  of  each  tempered  shield. 
And  proud  steeds  neighing  far  afield  ? 

Sweet  Flesh  and  Blood  !  my  tale's  not  told, 

'Tis  scantly  well  begun  : — 
Our  vows  were  passed,  in  heaven  enrolled, 

And  then  next  morrow's  sun 
Saw  banners  waving  in  the  wind, 

And  tall  barks  on  the  sea : 
Glory  before,  and  Love  behind, 

Marshalled  i>roud  chivalrie, 


THE   madman's   love.  85 

As  every  valor-freighted  ship 
Its  gilt  prow  in  the  wave  did  dipi 

And  then  passed  o'er  a  men-y  time, — 

A  roistering,  gamesome  life, 
Till  cheeks  were  tanned  with  many  a  clime, 

Brows  scarred  in  many  a  strife. 
But  what  of  that  ?     Year  after  year, 

In  every  battle's  shock. 
Or  'mid  the  storms  of  ocean  drear, 

^ly  heart  clung  to  this  rock  ; 
Was  with  its  very  being  blent, 
Sucking  from  it  brave  nourishment. 

All  life,  all  feeling,  every  thought, 

Was  centred  in  this  spot ; 
The  unforgettinsj  beinn;  wrousht 

Upon  the  Unforgot. 
Time  fleeted  on  ;  but  time  ne'er  dimmed 

The  picturings  of  the  heart, — 
Freshly  as  when  they  first  were  limned, 

Truth's  fadeless  tints  would  start ; 
Yes !  wheresoe'er  Life's  bark  might  steer, 
This  changeless  heart  was  anchored  here. 

Ha !  laugh,  sweet  Flesh  and  Blood,  outright. 

Nor  smother  honest  glee. 
Your  time  is  now ;  but  ere  this  night 

Hath  travelled  over  me, 
My  time  shall  come ;  and  then,  ay,  then 

The  wanton  stars  shall  reel 
Like  drunkards  all,  when  we  madmen 

Upraise  our  laughter  peal. 
I  see  the  cause :  the  Twaix, — the  One, — 
The  Shape  that  gibbered  in  the  sun  ! 


c 


You  pinch  my  wrist,  you  press  my  knee, 
With  fingers  long  and  small ; 

Light  fetters  these, — not  so  on  me 
Did  heathen  shackles  fcill. 


86  THE  madman's  love. 

When  I  was  captived  in  the  fight 

On  Candy's  fatal  shore  ; 
And  payniras  won  a  battered  knight, 

A  living  well  of  gore  ; — 
How  the  knaves  smote  me  to  the  ground, 
And  hewed  me  like  a  tree  all  round ! 

They  hammered  irons  on  my  hand. 

And  Irons  on  my  knee ; 
They  bound  me  fast,  with  many  a  band, 

To  pillar  and  to  tree  ; 
They  flung  me  in  a  loathsome  pit. 

Where  loathly  things  were  rife, — 
Where  newt  and  toad  and  rat  would  sit, 

Debating  for  my  life, 
On  my  breast-bone ;  while  one  and  all 
Hissed,  fought,  and  voided  on  their  thrall. 

Yet  lived  I  on,  and,  madman-like, 

With  unchanged  heart  I  lay  ; 
No  venom  to  its  core  could  strike. 

For  it  was  far  away  : — 
'Twas  even  here  beside  tliis  Tree, 

Its  Trysting-place  of  yore, 
Where  that  Ibnd  maiden  swore  to  me, 

"  Thine,  thine,  for  evermore." 
Faith  in  her  vow  made  that  pit  seem 
The  palace  of  Arabian  dream. 

And  so  was  passed  a  weary  time. 

How  long  I  cannot  tell, 
'Twas  years  ere  in  that  sunny  clime 

A  sunbeam  on  me  fell. 
But  from  that  tomb  I  rushed  in  tears. 

The  fetters  fell  from  me, 
They  rusted  tiirough  with  damp  and  years, 

And  rotted  was  the  tree. 
When  the  Undying  crawled  from  night, — 
From  loathsomeness,  into  God's  light. 


THE   M  ADM  ax's   LOVE.  8? 

0  Lord  !  there  was  a  flood  of  sound 
Came  rushino;  through  my  ears, 

When  I  arose  from  underground, 

A  wild  thing  shedding  tears  : — 
The  voices  of  glad  birds  and  brooks, 

And  eke  of  greenwood  tree, 
With  all  the  long-remembered  looks 

Of  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
Danced  madly  through  my  'wildered  brain, 
And  shook  me  like  a  wind-swung  chain. 

Men  marvelled  at  the  ghastly  form 

That  sat  before  the  sun, — 
That  laughed  to  scorn  the  pelting  storm, 

Nor  would  the  thunders  shun  ; 
The  bearded  Shape,  that  gibbered  sounds 

Of  uncouth  lore  and  lands. 
Struck  awe  into  these  heathen  hounds, 

Who,  lifting  up  their  hands, 
Blessed  the  wild  prophet,  and  then  brought 
Raiment  and  food  unthanked,  unsought.      - 

1  have  a  dreaming  of  the  sea, — 

A  dreaming  of  the  land, — 
A  dreaming  that  again  to  me 

Belonged  a  good  knight's  brand, — 
A  dreaming  that  this  brow  was  pressed 

With  plumed  helm  once  more, 
That  linked  mail  reclad  this  breast 

When  I  retrod  the  shore. 
The  blessed  shores  of  my  fatherland. 
And  knelt  in  prayer  upon  its  strand. 

"  Years  furrow  brows  and  channel  cheeks, 
But  should  not  chase  old  loves  away ; 

The  language  which  true  heart  first  speaks. 
That  Tanguage  must  it  hold  for  aye." 

This  poesie  a  war-worn  man 

Did  mutter  to  himself  one  night, 


88  THE  madman's  love. 

As  upwards  to  this  cliff  he  ran, 
That  shone  in  the  moonHglit ; 
And  by  tlie  nioonhglit  curiously 
He  scanned  the  bark  of  this  old  tree. 

"  No  change  is  here,  all  things  remain 
As  they  were  years  ago  ; 
•     With  selfsame  voice  the  old  woods  playiie, 
When  shrilly  winds  do  blow, — 
Still  murmuring  to  itself,  the  stream 

Rolls  o'er  its  rocky  bed, — 
Still  smiling  in  its  quiet  di-eam, 

The  small  flower  nods  its  head ; 
And  I  stand  here,"  the  War-worn  said, 
"  Like  Nature's  heart  unaltered." 

Now,  Flesh  and  Blood,  that  sits  by  me 

On  tliis  bare  ledge  of  stone. 
So  sat  that  Childe  of  cloivalrie, 

One  summer  eve  alone. 
I  saw  him,  and  methought  he  seemed 

Like  to  the  bearded  Form 
That  sat  before  the  sun,  and  gleamed 

Defiance  to  the  storm ; 
I  saw  him  in  his  war-weed  sit. 
And  other  Two  before  him  flit. 

Yes,  in  the  shadow  of  that  tree, 

And  motionless  as  stone. 
Sat  the  War-worn,  while  mirthfully 

The  other  Two  passed  on  ; — 
By  heaven  !  one  was  a  comely  bride, 

Her  face  gleamed  in  the  moon, 
As  richly  as  in  full-fleshed  pride 

Bright  roses  burst  in  June  ; 
Metliought  she  was  the  maiden  mild, 
Tliat  whilom  loved  the  wandering  Cliildel 


o 


But  it  was  not  her  former  love 
That  wandered  with  her  there, — 


THE  madman's  love.  89 

O,  no !  long  absence  well  may  move 

A  maideu  to  despair ; 
Old  loves  we  cast  unto  the  winds, 

Old  vows  into  the  sea, 
'Tis  lightsome  tor  all  jrentle  minds 

To  be  as  fancy  free. 
So  the  Vow-pledged  One  loved  another, 
And  wantoned  with  a  younger  brother. 

I  heard  a  dull,  hoarse  chuckle  sound. 

Beside  that  trysting-tree  ; 
I  saw,  uprising  from  the  ground, 

A  ghastly  shape  like  me. 
But  no  ! — it  was  the  \Var-worn  wight, 

That,  pale  as  whited  wall. 
Strode  forth  into  the  moonshine  bright, 

And  let  the  hoarse  sounds  fall. 
A  voice  uprushing  from  the  tomb 
Than  his  were  less  fulfilled  with  doom. 

"Judgment  ne'er  sleeps  !"  the  War-worn  said, 

As,  striding  into  light. 
He  stood  before  that  shuddering  maid, 

Between  her  and  that  knight. 
Judgment  ne'er  sleeps  !  'tis  wondrous  odd, 

One  srurfjle,  one  long  sigh. 
Ended  it  all  !     Upon  this  sod 

Lay  one  with  unclosed  eye. 
And  then  the  boiling  linn  that  night, 
Flung  on  its  banks  a  lady  bright 

She  tripped  towards  me  as  you  have  tripped, 

Pale  maiden  !  and  as  cold; 
She  sipped  with  me,  as  you  have  sipped. 

Night  dews,  and  then  I  told 
To  her,  as  you,  my  weary  tale 

Of  double  liie  and  pain  ; 
And  thawed  her  fingers  chill  and  pale 

Upon  my  burning  brain  ; — 


90  THE    madman's    LOTE. 

That  daintiest  piece  of  Flesh  on  earth, 
I  welcomed  to  all  my  mirth. 

And  then  I  pressed  her  icy  hand 

Within  my  burning  palm, 
And  told  her  tales  of  that  far  land 

Of  sunshine,  ilowers,  and  balm  ; 
I  told  her  of  the  damp,  dark  hole, 

The  fetters,  and  the  tree, 
And  of  the  slimy  things  that  stole 

O'er  shuddering  flesh  so  free: 
Yea,  of  the  Bearded  Ghasthness 
That  sat  in  the  sun's  loveliness. 

I  welcomed  her,  I  welcome  thee, 

To  sit  upon  this  stone, 
And  meditate  all  night  with  me. 

On  ages  that  are  gone  ; 
To  dream  again  each  marvellous  dream 

Of  passion  and  of  truth. 
And  reconstruct  each  shattered  beam 

That  glorified  glad  vouth. 
These  were  the  days  ! — hearts  then  could  feei, 
Eyes  weep,  and  slumbers  o'er  them  steal. 

But  not  so  now.     The  second  life 

That  wearied  hearts  must  live, 
Is  woven  with  that  thread  of  strife, — 

Forget  not,  nor  Forgive  ! 
Fires,  scorching  fires,  run  through  our  veins, 

Our  corded  sinews  crack, 
And  molten  lead  boils  in  our  brains, 

For  marrow  to  the  back. 
Ha  !  ha !    What's  Life  ?    Think  of  the  joke, 
The  fiercest  fire  still  ends  in  smoke ! 

Fill  up  the  cup !  fill  up  the  can ! 

Drink,  drink,  sweet  Flesh  and  Blood, 
The  health  of  the  grim,  bearded  man 


HALBERT   THE   GRIM.  91 

That  hauntetli  solitude ; — 
The  wood  pours  forth  its  melodies, 

And  stars  whirl  last  around  ; 
Yon  moon-ship  scuds  before  the  breeze, — 

Ilark,  how  sky-billows  sound  I 
Drink,  Flesh  and  Blood !  then  trip  with  me 
One  measure  round  the  Madman's  Tree  1 


HALBERT  THE  GRIM. 

There  is  blood  on  that  brow. 
There  is  blood  on  that  hand ; 

There  is  blood  on  that  hauberk, 
And  blood  on  that  brand. 

O,  bloody  all  o'er  is 
His  war-cloak,  I  weet ; 

He  is  wrapped  in  the  cover 
Of  murder's  red  sheet ! 

There  is  pity  in  man, — 

Is  there  any  in  liim  ? 
No  !  ruth  were  a  strange  guest 

To  Halbert  the  Grim. 

The  hardest  may  soften. 

The  fiercest  repent ; 
But  the  lieart  of  Grim  Halbert 

May  never  relent. 

Death-doing  on  earth  is 

Forever  his  cry ; 
And  pillage  and  plunder 

His  hope  in  the  sky  ! 


92  HALBEKT   THE   GUIM. 

'Tis  midnight,  deep  midnight, 
And  (hirk.  is  the  heaven  ; 

Sir  Halbert,  in  mockery, 
Wends  to  be  shriven. 

He  kneels  not  to  stone, 

And  he  bends  not  to  wood  ; 

But  he  swung  round  his  brown  blade. 
And  hewed  down  the  Rood ! 

He  stuck  his  long  sword,  with 

Its  point  in  the  earth  ; 
And  he  prayed  to  its  cross-hilt, 

In  mockery  and  mirth. 

Thus  lowly  he  louteth. 
And  mumbles  his  beads; 

Then  Lightly  he  riseth, 
And  homeward  he  speeds. 

His  steed  hurries  homewards. 

Darkling  and  dim ; 
Right  fearful  it  prances 

With  Halbert  the  Grim. 

Still  fiercer  it  tramples, 

The  spur  gores  its  side ; 
Now  downward  and  downward 

Grim  Halbert  doth  ride. 

The  brown  wood  is  threaded, 
The  gray  flood  is  passed. 

Yet  hoarser  and  wilder 
Moans  ever  the  blast 

No  star  lends  its  taper. 
No  moon  sheds  her  glow ; 

For  dark  is  tlie  dull  path 
That  Baron  must  go. 


HALBERT   THE   GRIM.  93 

Though  starless  the  sky,  and 

No  moon  shines  abroad, 
Yet,  flasliing  with  fire,  all 

At  once  gleams  the  road. 

And  his  black  steed,  I  trow, 

As  it  galloped  on, 
With  a  hot  sulphur  halo 

And  flame-flash  all  shone. 

From  eye  and  from  nostril 

Out  gushed  the  pale  flame, 
And  from  its  chafed  mouth  the 

Churned  fire-froth  came. 

They  are  two  !  they  are  two  ! — 
They  are  coal-black  as  night, 

That  now  stanchly  follow 
That  grim  Baron's  flight. 

In  each  lull  of  the  wild  blast 

Out  breaks  their  deep  yell ; 
*Tis  the  slot  of  the  doomed  one, 

These  hounds  track  so  well. 

Ho  !  downward,  still  downward, 

Sheer  slopeth  his  way  : 
No  let  hath  his  progress. 

No  gate  bids  him  stay. 

No  noise  had  his  horse-hoof 

As  onward  it  sped  ; 
But  silent  it  fell,  as 

The  foot  of  the  dead. 

Now  redder  and  redder 

Flares  far  its  bright  eye. 
And  harsher  these  dark  hounds 

Yell  out  their  fierce  cry. 


94  TnuE  lovk's  dirge. 

Sheer  tlo^v^lwar(l !  right  downward 
Then  dashed  hfe  and  limb, 

As  careering  to  hell. 

Sunk  Haibert  the  Grun  ! 


TRUE  LOVE'S  DIRGE. 

Some  love  is  light,  and  fleets  away, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

Some  love  is  deep,  and  scorns  decay, 
Ah,  well-a-day!  in  vain. 

Of  loyal  love  I  sing  this  lay, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

'Tis  of  a  knight  and  lady  gay. 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  bright  twain. 

He  loved  her, — heart  loved  ne'er  so  well, 
Heisho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

She  was  a  cold  and  proud  damsel. 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  and  vain. 

He  loved  her, — O,  he  loved  her  long ! 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 
But  she  for  love  gave  bitter  wrong, 

Ah,  well-a-day !  Disdain  ! 

It  is  not  meet  for  knight  like  me, 
Heigho!  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

Thougli  scorned,  love's  recreant  to  be. 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  Refrain. 

That  brave  knight  buckled  to  his  brand, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

And  fast  he  sousxht  a  foreign  strand, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  in  pain. 


TRUE   love's    dirge.  95 

He  wandered  wide  by  land  and  sea, 

Heiglio  !  the  Wind  and  Rtiin  ; 
A  mirror  of  briglit  constancye, 

Ah,  well-a-day  !  in  vain. 

He  would  not  chide,  he  would  not  blame, 

Heigho  !  tiie  Wind  and  Rain  ; 
But  at  each  shrine  lie  breathed  her  name, 

Ah,  well-a-day  1  Amen  ! 

He  would  not  carpe,  he  would  not  sing, 

Heigho !  the  AVind  and  Rain  ; 
But  broke  his  heart  with  love-longing, 

Ah,  well-a-day  !  poor  brain. 

He  seonied  to  weep,  he  scorned  to  sigh, 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 
But  like  a  true  knight  he  could  die, — 

Ah,  well-a-day !  life's  vain. 

The  banner  which  that  brave  knight  bore, 

Heigho  !   the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 
Had  scrolled  on  it  "jjaitj)  I5bermore." 

Ah,  well-a-day !  again. 

That  banner  led  the  Christian  van, 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 
Against  Seljuck  and  Turcoman, 

Ah,  well-a-day !  bright  train. 

The  fight  was  o'er,  the  day  was  done, 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 
But  lacking  was  that  loyal  one, — 

Ah,  well-a-<lay  !  sad  pain. 

They  found  him  on  the  battle-field, 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 
With  l)roken  sword  and  cloven  shield, 

Ah,  weU-a-duy  !  in  twain. 


96  TRUE   love's   dirge. 

They  found  him  pillowed  on  the  dead, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Kain  ; 

The  blood-soaked  sod  his  bridal  bed, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  the  Slain. 

On  his  pale  brow,  and  paler  cheek, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

The  white  moonshine  did  fall  so  meek. 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  sad  strain. 

They  lifted  up  the  True  and  Brave, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

And  bore  him  to  his  lone,  cold  grave, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  in  pain. 

They  buried  him  on  that  far  strand, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

His  face  turned  towards  his  love's  own  land, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  how  vain. 

The  wearied  heart  was  laid  at  rest, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

To  dream  of  her  it  liked  best. 
Ah,  well-a-day  1  again. 

They  nothing  said,  but  many  a  tear, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

Rained  down  on  that  knight's  lowly  bier, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  amain. 

They  nothing  said,  but  many  a  sigh, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

Told  how  they  wished  like  him  to  die, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  sans  stain. 

With  solemn  mass  and  orison, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

Tliey  reared  to  him  a  cross  of  stone. 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  in  pain. 


THE    DEMON    LADY.  97 

And  on  it  graved  with  daggers  bright, 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 
J^ete  UtH  a  true  antt  flentlc  UnCfljjt, 

Ah,  well-a-day  !  Amen  ! 

Kcqufescat  fti  pace. 


THE  DEMON  LADY. 

Again  in  my  chamber  ! 

Again  at  my  bed  ! 
With  thy  smile  sweet  as  sunshine, 

And  hand  cold  as  lead  ! 
I  know  thee,  I  know  thee  ! — 

Nay,  start  not,  my  sweet ! 
These  golden  rolaes  shrank  up, 

And  showed  me  thy  feet ; 
These  golden  robes  shrank  up, 

And  taffety  thin, 
While  out  crept  the  symbols 

Of  Death  and  of  Sin  1 

Bright,  beautiful  devil ! 

Pass,  pass  from  me  now  ! 
For  the  damp  dew  of  death 

Gathers  thick  on  my  brow : 
And  bind  up  thy  girdle. 

Nor  beauties  disclose, 
More  dazzlingly  white 

Than  the  wreath-drifted  snows: 
And  away  with  thy  kisses ; 

My  heart  waxes  sick. 
As  thy  red  lips,  like  worms, 

Travel  over  my  cheek  I 

Ha !  press  me  no  more  with 
That  passionless  hand  1 
7 


•8  THE   DEMON   LADY. 

'Tis  whiter  than  milk,  or 

The  loam  on  the  strand  ; 
'Tis  softer  than  down,  or 

The  silken-leaved  flower; 
But  colder  tlian  ice  thrills 

Its  touch  at  this  hour. 
Like  the  finger  of  Death 

From  cerements  unrolled, 
Thy  hand  on  my  heart  falls 

Dull,  clammy,  and  cold. 

Nor  bend  o'er  my  pillow, — 

Thy  raven-black  hair 
O'ershadows  my  brow  with 

A  deeper  despair ; 
These  ringlets  tliick  falling 

Spread  fire  through  my  brain, 
And  my  temples  are  throbbing 

With  madness  again. 
The  moonlight!  the  moonlight! 

The  deep- winding  bay ! 
There  are  two  on  that  strand, 

And  a  ship  far  away  ! 

In  its  silence  and  beauty. 

Its  passion  and  power. 
Love  breathed  o'er  the  land, 

Like  the  soul  of  a  flower. 
The  billows  were  chiming 

On  pale  yellow  sands ; 
And  moonshine  was  gleaminc 

On  small,  ivory  hands. 
There  were  bowers  by  the  brook's  brink, 

And  flowers  bursting  free ; 
There  were  hot  lips  to  suck  forth 

A  lost  soul  from  me  I 

Now,  mountain  and  meadow, 
Frith,  forest,  and  river, 


ZAKA.  99 

Are  mingling  with  sliailows, — 

Are  lost  to  me  ever. 
The  sunlight  is  fading, 

Small  birds  seek  their  nest; 
While  happy  hearts;,  flower-like, 

Sink  sinless  to  rest, 
But  I ! — 'tis  no  matter  ; — 

Ay,  kiss  cheek  and  chin  ; 
Kiss, — kiss, — thou  hast  won  mc, 

Bnght,  beautiful  Sin ! 


ZARA. 

"  A  SILVERY  veil  of  pure  moonlight 
Is  glancing  o'er  the  quiet  water, 
And  O  !  'tis  beautiful  and  bright 
As  the  soft  smile  of  Selim's  daughter. 

"  Sleep,  moonlight !  sleep  upon  the  wave, 
And  hush  to  rest  each  rising  billow, 
Then  dwell  within  the  mountain  cave, 
Where  this  fond  breast  is  Zara's  pillow. 

"  Shine  on,  thou  blessed  moon  !  brighter  still, 
O,  shine  thus  ever  night  and  moiTow  ! 
For  daybreak  mantling  o'er  the  hill 
But  wakes' my  love  to  fear  and  sorrow." 

'Twas  thus  the  Spanish  youth  beguiled 
The  rising  fears  of  Selim's  daughter; 
And  on  their  loves  the  pale  moon  smiled, 
Unweeting  of  the  morrow's  slaughter. 

Alas!  too  early  rose  that  morn. 

On  harnessed  knight  and  fierce  soldada, — 

Alas  !  too  soon  the  Moorish  horn 

And  tambour  rang  in  Old  Grenada. 


100  ZARA. 

Tlie  dew  j-et  bathes  the  flreamiiifi;  flower, 
The  mist  yet  lirifjers  in  the  valley, 
When  Selim  and  his  Zofrns'  power 
From  port  and  postern  sternly  sally. 

]\Iarry  !  it  was  a  gallant  sight 

To  see  the  plain  with  armor  glancing, 

As  on  to  Alpuxara's  height 

Proud  Selim's  chivalry  were  prancing. 

The  knights  dismount ;  on  foot  they  climb 

The  rugged  steeps  of  Alpuxara ; 

In  fateful  and  unhappy  time 

Proud  Selim  found  his  long-lost  Zara. 

They  sleep, — in  sleep  they  smile  and  dream 
Of  happy  days  they  ne'er  shall  number; 
Their  lips  breathe  sounds, — their  spirits  seem 
To  hold  communion  while  they  slumber. 

A  moment  gazed  the  stern  old  Moor, 
A  scant  tear  in  his  eye  did  gather, 
For  as  he  gazed,  she  muttered  o'er 
A  blessing  on  her  cruel  father. 

The  hand  that  grasped  the  crooked  blade 
Relaxed  its  gripe,  then  clutched  it  stronger 
The  tear  tliat  tliat  dark  eye  hath  shed 
On  the  swart  cheek  is  seen  no  longer. 

'Tis  past ! — the  bloody  deed  is  done, 
A  father's  hand  hath  sealed  the  slaughter ! 
Yet  in  Grenada  many  a  one 
Bewails  the  fate  of  Selim's  daughter. 

And  many  a  Moorish  damsel  hath 

Made  pilgrimage  to  Alpuxara; 

And  breathed  her  vows  where  Selim's  wrath 

O'rrtook  the  .SJ);lni^:ll  youlli  and  Zai'a. 


OUGLOU'S   ONSLAUGHT.  101 

OUGLOU'S   ONSLAUGHT. 

A  TURKISH  BATTLE-SONG. 
TCHASSAN  OUGLOU  IS  On! 

Tchassan  Ouglou  is  on! 
And  with  him  to  battle 
The  Faithful  are  gone. 

Allah,  il  allah ! 
The  tambour  is  rung ; 
Into  his  war-saddle 
Each  Spahi  hath  swung : — 
Now  the  blast  of  the  desert 
Sweeps  over  the  land, 
And  the  pale  fires  of  heaven 
Gleam  in  each  Damask  brand 

Ailah,  il  allah ! 

Tchassan  Ouglou  is  on  ! 
Tchassan  Ouglou  is  on  ! 
Abroad  on  the  winds,  all 
His  Horse-tails  are  thrown. 
'Tis  the  rush  of  the  eagle 
Down  cleaving  through  air, — - 
'Tis  the  bound  of  the  lion 
When  roused  from  his  lair. 
Ha  !  fiercer  and  wilder 
And  madder  by  far, 
On  thunders  the  might 
Of  the  jMoslemite  war. 
Allah,  il  allah ! 

Forth  lash  their  wild  horees, 
AVith  loose-Howing  rein  ; 
The  steel  grides  their  (lanlc, 
Tlieir  hoof  scarce  dints  the  plain. 
Likc'the  mad  stars  of  heaven, 


102  OUGLOU'S   OXSLAUGirr. 

Now  the  Delis  nish  out ; 
O'er  the  thunder  of  cannon 
Swells  proudly  their  shout, — 
And  sheeted  with  foam, 
Like  the  surge  of  the  sea, 
Over  wreck,  death,  and  woe  rolls 
Each  fierce  Osmanli. 
Allah,  il  allah ! 

Fast  forward,  still  forward, 

IVIan  follows  on  man, 

While  the  Horse-tails  are  dashing 

Afar  in  the  van  ; — 

See  where  yon  pale  crescent 

And  green  turban  shine, 

There  smite  for  the  Prophet, 

And  Othman's  great  line  ! 

Allah,  il  allah ! 
The  fierce  war-cry  is  given, — 
For  the  flesh  of  the  Giaour 
Shriek  the  vultures  of  heaven. 

Allah,  il  allah ! 

Allah,  il  allah ! 
How  thick  on  the  plain 
The  infidels  cluster. 
Like  ripe,  heavy  grain  ! 
The  reaper  is  coming, 
The  crooked  sickle's  bare, 
And  the  shout  of  the  Faithful 
Is  rending  the  air. 
Bismiilah  !  Bi.smillah  ! 
Each  fai'-flasliiug  lirand 
Ilath  piled  its  red  harvest 
Of  death  on  the  land ! 

Allah,  il  allah! 

Mark,  mark  yon  green  turban 
That  heaves  through  the  fight, 


OUGLOU'S   ONSLAUGHT.  lOS 

Like  a  tempest-tost  bark 
'Mid  the  thunders  of  night; 
See,  parting  before  it, 
On  right  and  on  left, 
How  the  dark  billows  tumble, — 
Each  saucy  crest  cleft ! 
Ay,  horseman  and  footman 
Reel  back  in  dismay, 
When  the  sword  of  stern  Ouglou 
Is  lifted  to  slay. 
Allah,  il  allah ! 

Allah,  il  allah ! 
Tchassan  Ouglou  is  on! 
O'er  the  Infidel  breast 
Hath  his  fiery  barb  gone  : 
The  bullets  rain  on  him. 
They  fall  thick  as  hail ; 
The  lances  crash  round  him 
Like  reeds  in  the  gale, — 
But  onward,  still  onward, 
For  God  and  his  law. 
Through  the  dark  strife  of  Death 
Bursts  the  gallant  Pacha. 

Allah,  il  allah  1 

In  the  wake  of  his  might, 
In  the  path  of  the  wind. 
Pour  the  sons  of  the  Faithful, 
Careering  behind  ; 
And  bending  to  battle 
O'er  each  high  saddlebow, 
With  the  sword  of  Azrael, 
They  sweep  down  the  foe. 
^  Allah,  il  allah  ! 
'Tis  Ouglou  that  cries, — 
In  the  breath  of  his  nostril 
The  Infidel  dies  ! 
AUah,  il  allah  I 


104  ELFIXLAXD   WVD. 


ELFI^'LA^'D  WCD. 

A3  OOUTIOX  OF  TBS  ASCIEST  SCOmSH  BCXASTIC  BA1IA9. 

Eel  William  has  muntit  bis  gade  grai  stede, 
(Merrie  iemis  manelicht  on  the  sea.) 

And  graiihit  him  in  ane  cumli  weid. 

(Swa  bonnilie  bluinis  the  hawthom-tree.) 

Erl  AMlliam  rade,  Erl  William  ran, 
(Fast  they  ryde  quha  luve  trewlie.) 

Quhyll  the  Elfinland  wud  that  gude  Erl  wan— 
(Blink  ower  the  bum,  sweit  may,  to  mee.) 

Elfinland  wud  is  dem  and  dreir, 

(Merrie  is  the  grai  gowkis  sang.) 
Bot  ilk  ane  leafis  quhyt  as  silver  cleir. 

(Licht  makis  schoirt  the  road  swa  lang.) 

It  is  undimeth  ane  braid  aik  tree, 

(Hey  and  a  lo,  as  the  leavis  grow  grein,) 

Thair  is  kythit  ane  bricht  ladie, 

(Manie  flooria  blume  qululk  ar  nocht  seen.) 

Around  hir  slepis  the  quhyte  muneschyne, 

(Meik  is  mayden  undir  kell.) 
Hir  lips  bin  lyke  the  blude  reid  wyne  ; 

(The  rois  of  flourb  hes  sweitest  smelL) 

It  was  al  bricht  quhare  that  ladie  stude, 
(Far  my  lore,  fure  ower  the  sea.) 

Bot  dem  is  the  lave  of  Elfinland  wud, 

(The  knicht  pruvit  false  that  ance  luvit  me.) 


ELFINLAND   "WUD.  104 

The  ladle's  hanrlis  were  quliyte  als  milk, 
(Riiiifis  my  luve  wore  mair  nor  ane.) 

Hir  skin  was  safter  nor  the  silk  ; 

(LiUy  bricht  schinis  my  luvis  halse  bane.) 

Save  you,  save  you,  fayr  ladle. 

(Gentil  hert  schawis  irentll  deed.) 
Standand  alane  undir  tliis  auld  tree ; 

(Deir  till  knicht  is  nobil  steid.) 

Burdalane,  if  ye  dwell  here, 

(My  hert  is  layed  upon  this  land.) 

I  wud  like  to  live  your  fere  ; 

(Tlie  schijipis  cum  sailin  to  the  strand.) 

Nevir  ane  word  that  ladie  sayd  ; 

(Schortest  rede  hes  least  to  mend.) 
Bot  on  hir  harp  she  evir  played ; 

(Thare  nevir  was  mirth  that  had  nocht  end.) 

Gang  ye  eist  or  fare  ye  wast, 

(Ilka  stern  blinkis  blythe  for  thee,) 

Or  tak  ye  the  road  that  ye  like  best, 
(Al  trew  feeris  ryde  in  cumpanie.) 

Erl  William  loutit  doun  full  lowe  ; 

(Luvis  first  seid  bin  courtesie.) 
And  swung  hir  owir  his  saddil  bow, 

(Ryde  cjuha  listis,  ye'U  link  with  mce.) 

Scho  flang  her  harp  on  that  auld  tree, 
(The  wynd  pruvis  aye  ane  harpir  gude.) 

And  it  gave  out  its  music  free  ; 

(Birdis  sing  blythe  in  gay  green  wud.) 

The  harp  playde  on  its  leefiil  lane, 

(Land  is  my  luvis  yellow  hair.) 
Quhill  it  has  charmit  stock  and  stane, 

(Furth  by  firth,  deir  lady  fare.) 


106  ELFINLAND   WUD. 

Qulian  scho  was  muntit  liim  behyml, 

(Blytli  be  hertis  quhilkis  Iiive  "ilk  uther.) 

Awa  thai  flew  lyke  flaucht  of  wind  ; 

(Kin  kens  kin,  and  bairnis  thair  mither.) 

Nevir  ane  word  that  ladie  spak  ; 

(IMLm  be  maydens  men  besyde.) 
Bot  that  stout  steid  did  nicher  and  schaik  ; 

(Smal  things  humbil  hertis  of  pryde.) 

About  his  breist  scho  plet  her  handis; 

(Luvand  be  maydins  (juhan  thai  lyke.) 
Bot  thay  were  cauld  as  yi-on  bandis. 

(The  winter  bauld  bindis  sheuch  and  syke.) 

Your  handis  ar  cauld,  fayr  ladie,  sayd  hee, 
(Tiie  caulder  hand  the  trewer  hairt.) 

I  trenibil  als  the  lief  on  tlie  tree ; 

(Licht  caussis  muve  aid  friendis  to  pairt.) 

Lap  your  mantil  owir  your  heid, 

(My  luve  was  clad  in  the  reid  scarlett,) 

And  spredd  your  kirtil  owir  my  stede  ; 
(Thair  nevir  was  joie  that  had  nae  lett.) 

The  ladie  scho  wald  nocht  dispute ; 

(Nocht  woman  is  scho  that  laikis  ane  tung.) 
But  caulder  hir  fingeris  about  him  cruik. 

(Sum  sangis  ar  writt,  bot  nevir  sung.) 

This  Elfinland  wud  will  neir  haif  end; 

(Hunt  quha  listis,  daylicht  for  mee,) 
I  wuld  I  culd  ane  Strang  bow  bend, 

(Al  undirneth  the  grene  wud  tree.) 

Thai  rade  up,  and  they  rade  doun, 
(AVcariJie  wearis  wan  nicht  away.) 

Erl  William's  heart  niair  cauld  is  grown  ; 
(Hey,  luve  mine,  quhan  dawis  the  day?) 


ELFINLAND    WUD.  107 

Tour  hand  lies  cauld  on  ni}'  briest-bane, 

(Smal  hand  hes  my  ladle  fair,) 
My  horss  he  can  nocht  stand  his  lane, 

(For  cauldness  of  this  midnicht  air.) 

Erl  William  turnit  his  held  about ; 

(The  braid»mune  schinis  in  lift  richt  cleir.) 
Twa  Elfin  een  are  glentin  owt, 

(My  luvis  een  like  twa  sternis  appere.) 

Twa  brennand  eyne,  sua  bricht  and  full, 

(Bonnilie  blinkis  my  ladeis  ee.) 
Flang  fire  flauchtis  fra  ane  peelit  skull ; 

(Sum  sichts  ar  ugsomlyk  to  see.) 

Twa  rawis  of  quhyt  teeth  then  did  say, 
(Cauld  the  boysteous  windis  sal  blaw,) 

O,  lang  and  weary  is  our  way, 

(And  donkir  yet  the  dew  maun  fa'.) 

Far  owir  mure,  and  far  owir  fell, 

(Hark  the  sounding  huntsmen  thrang; 

Thorow  dingle,  and  thorow  dell, 
(Luve,  come,  list  the  merlis  sang.) 

Thorow  fire,  and  thorow  flude, 

(Mudy  mindis  rage  lyk  a  sea ;) 
Thorow  slauchtir,  thorow  blude, 

(A  seamless  shrowd  weird  schaipis  for  me  !) 

And  to  rede  aricht  my  spell, 

Eerilie  sal  nicht  wyndis  moan, 
Quhill  (leand  Hevin  and  raikand  Ilell, 

Ghaist  with  ghaist  maun  wandir  on. 


10b  MIDNIGnX   AND   MOONSHINE. 


MIDNIGHT  AND  MOONSHINE. 

All  earth  below,  all  heaven  auove, 
In  this  calm  hour,  are  filled  with  Love  ; 
All  siiilits,  all  sounds,  have  throbbing  hearts, 
In  which  its  blessed  fountain  starts, 
And  gushes  foi'th  so  fresh  and  free, 
Like  a  soul-thrilling  melody. 

Look  !  look  !  the  land  is  sheathed  in  light, 

And  mark  the  winding  stream, 
How,  creeping  round  yon  distant  height, 

Its  rippling  waters  gleam. 
Its  waters  flash  through  leaf  and  flower, — 

O,  merrily  tiiey  go  ! 
Like  living  tilings,  their  voices  pour 

Dim  music  as  they  flow. 
Sinless  and  pure  they  seek  the  sea, 
As  souls  pant  for  eternity; — 
Heaven  speed  their  bright  course  till  they  sleep 
In  the  broad  bosom  of  the  deep. 

High  in  mid-air,  on  seraph  wing, 
The  paley  moon  is  journeying 
In  stillest  path  of  stainless  blue  ; 
Keen,  curious  stars  are  peering  through 
Heaven's  arch  this  hour ;  they  dote  on  her 
AVith  perfect  love  ;  nor  can  she  stir 
Within  hi-r  vaulted  lialls  a  pace. 
Ere,  rushing  out  with  joyous  face. 

These  Godkins  of  the  sky 
Smile,  as  she  glides  in  loveliness ; 

While  every  heart  beats  high 
Witli  passion,  and  breaks  forth  to  blesa 

Her  loftier  divinity. 


MIDNIGHT   AND   MOONSHINE.  109 

It  is  a  smile  wortli  worlds  to  win, — ■ 
So  full  of  love,  so  void  of  sin. 
The  smile  she  sheds  on  these  tall  trees, 
Stout  children  of  past  centuries. 
Each  little  leaf  with  feathery  light 

Is  margined  marvellously; 
Movelessall  droop  in  slumberous  quiet ; 

How  beautiful  they  be  ! 
And  blissful  as  soft  infants  lulled 

Upon  a  mother's  knee. 

Far  down  yon  dell  the  melody 

Of  a  small  brook  is  audible  ; 
The  shadow  of  a  thread-like  tone, — 
It  murmurs  over  root  and  stone, 

Yet  sings  of  very  love  its  fill ; — 
And  hark !  even  now,  how  sweetly  shrill 

It  trolls  its  fairy  glee, 
Skywards  unto  that  pure,  bright  one ! 

O,  gentle  heart  hath  she  ! 
For  leaning  down  to  earth,  with  pleasure, 
She  hsts  its  fond  and  prattling  measure. 

It  is  indeed  a  silent  night 
Of  peace,  of  joy,  and  purest  light ; — 
No  angry  breeze,  in  surly  tone, 
Chides  the  old  forest  till  it  moan  ; 
Or  breaks  the  dreaming  of  the  owl. 

That,  warder-like,  on  yon  gray  tower, 
Feedeth  his  melancholy  soul 

With  visions  of  departed  power; 
And  o'er  the  ruins  Time  hath  sped, 
Nods  sadly  with  his  spectral  head. 

And  lo !  even  like  a  giant  wight 
Slumbering  his  battle  toils  away, 

The  sleep-locked  city,  gleaming  bright 
With  many  a  dazzling  ray. 

Lies  stretched  in  vastncss  at  my  feet; 

Voiceless  the  chamber  and  the  street, 


110  MIDNIGHT   AND   MOONSHINE. 

And  ceholoss  tlie  hall ; — 
Had  Death  ii])li(t  his  bony  hand 
And  smote  all  living  on  the  land, 

No  deeper  quiet  could  fall. 
In  this  religious  calm  of  night, 
Behold,  with  finger  tall  and  bright, 
Each  tapering  spire  points  to  the  sky, 
In  a  fond,  holy  ecstasy  ; — 
Strange  monuments  they  be  of  mind, — • 
Of  i'eelings  dim  and  undefined, 
ShajHug  themselves,  yet  not  the  less, 
In  ibrms  of  passing  loveliness. 

0  God  !  this  is  a  holy  hour  : — 
Thy  breath  is  o'er  the  land ; 

1  feel  it  in  each  little  flower 

Around  me  wiiere  I  stand, — 
In  all  the  moonshine  scattered  fair, 
Above,  below  me,  everywhere, — 
In  every  dew-bead  glistening  sheen, 
In  every  leaf  and  blade  of  green, — 
And  in  this  silence,  grand  and  deep, 
Wherein  thy  blessed  creatures  sleep. 

The  trees  send  forth  their  shadows  long 

In  gambols  o'er  the  earth. 
To  chase  each  other's  innocence 

In  quiet,  holy  mirth; 
O'er  the  glad  meadows  fast  they  throng, 

Shapes  multiform  and  tall ; 
And  lo !  for  them  the  chaste  moonbeam 

With  broadest  light  doth  fall. 
Mad  phantoms  all,  they  onward  glide, — 
On  swiftest  wind  they  seem  to  ndc 

O'er  meadow,  mount,  and  stream : 
And  now,  with  soft  and  silent  pace, 

They  walk  as  in  a  dream, 
AVhile  each  briglit  earth-flower  hides  its  face 
Of  blushes,  in  their  dim  embrace. 


MIDNIGHT    AND   MOONSHINE.  Ill 

Men  say,  that  in  this  midnight  hour 
The  disembodied  have  power 
To  wander  as  it  liketh  them, 
By  wizard  oak  and  fairy  stream, — 

Through  still  and  solemn  places, 
And  by  old  walls  and  tombs  to  dream, 

With  pale,  cold,  mournful  faces. 
I  fear  them  not ;  for  they  must  be 
Spirits  of  kindest  sympathy. 
Who  choose  such  haunts,  and  joy  to  feel 
The  beauties  of  this  calm  night  steal 
Like  music  o'er  them,  while  they  wooed 

The  luxury  -qf  Solitude. 

Welcome,  ye  gentle  spirits !  then, 

Who  love  and  feel  for  earth-chained  men,— 

Who,  in  this  hour,  delight  to  dwell 

By  moss-clad  oak  and  dripping  cell, — 

Who  joy  to  haunt  each  age-dimmed  spot. 

Which  ruder  natures  have  forgot; 

And,  in  majestic  solitude. 

Feel  every  pulse-stroke  thrill  of  good 

To  all  around,  below,  above  ; — 

Ye  are  the  co-mates  whom  I  love ! 

While,  lingering  in  this  moonshine  glade, 

I  dream  of  hopes  that  cannot  fade ; 

And  pour  abroad  those  fantasies 

That  spring  from  holiest  sympathies 

With  Nature's  moods  in  this  glad  hour 

Of  silence,  moonshine,  beauty,  power, 

When  the  busy  stir  of  man  is  gone. 

And  the  soul  is  left  with  its  God  alone ! 


1 J  2  THE   WATKR  !   THE   WATER  ! 


THE   WATER!    THE  WATER! 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  joyous  brook  for  me, 
That  tuncth  throuo;h  the  quiet  night 

Its  ever-living  glee. 
The  AVater !  the  Water ! 

ITiat  sleepless,  merry  heart, 
Which  gurgles  on  unstintedly, 

And  loveth  to  impart 
To  all  around  it  some  small  measure 
Of  its  own  most  perfect  pleasure. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

The  gentle  stream  for  me, 
That  gushes  from  the  old  gray  stone, 

Beside  the  alder-tree. 
The  Water !  the  Water  ! 

That  ever-bubbling  spring 
I  loved  and  looked  on  while  a  child, 

In  deepest  wondering, — 
And  asked  it  whence  it  came  and  went, 
And  when  its  treasures  would  be  spent. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  merry,  wanton  brook, 
That  bent  itself  to  pleasure  ma, 

Like  min.e  old  shepherd  crook. 
The  Water!  the  Water! 

That  sang  so  sweet  at  noon, 
And  sweeter  still  all  night,  to  win 

Smiles  from  the  pale,  proud  moon. 
And  from  the  little  fairy  faces 
That  gleam  in  heaven's  remotest  places. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 
The  dear  and  blessed  thing, 


THE    water!    the    WATER.  113 

That  all  (lay  fed  the  litfle  flowerd 

On  its  banks  blossoming. 
The  Water  !  the  Water  ! 

That  murmured  in  my  ear 
Hynms  of  a  saint-like  purity, 

That  angels  wull  might  hear; 
And  whisper  in  the  gates  of  heaven, 
How  meek  a  pilgrim  had  been  shriven. 

The  Water !  the  Water  ! 

AVhere  I  have  shed  salt  tears, 
In  loneliness  and  friendliness, 

A  thins  of  tender  years. 
The  Water !  the  Water ! 

Where  1  have  happy  been, 
And  showered  upon  its  bosom  flowers 

Culled  from  each  meadow  green, 
And  idly  hoped  my  life  would  be 
So  crowned  by  love's  idolatry. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

My  heart  yet  burns  to  think 
How  cool  thy  fountain  sparkled  forth, 

For  parched  lip  to  drink. 
The  Water !  the  Water ! 

Of  mine  own  native  glen ; 
The  gladsome  tongue  I  oft  have  heard, 

But  ne'er  shall  hear  again  ; 
Though  fancy  fills  my  ear  for  aye 
AVith  sounds  that  live  so  far  away ' 

The  Water  !  the  Water ! 

The  mild  and  glassy  wave. 
Upon  whose  broomy  banks  I've  longed 

To  find  mv  silt'iit  ^rave. 
The  Water !"  the  Water  ! 

O,  blest  to  me  thou  art ! 
Thus  sounding  in  life's  solitude. 

The  music  of  my  Iieart, 
8 


114  THREE   FANCIFUL   SUPPOSES. 

And  fiUiriiT  it,  despite  of  sadness, 
With  dreaniings  of  departed  gladness. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

The  mournful,  pensive  tone, 
Tliat  whispered  to  my  heart  how  soon 

This  weary  life  was  done. 
The  Water !  the  Water  1 

That  rolled  so  bright  and  free, 
And  bade  me  mark  how  beautiful 

Was  its  soul's  purity ; 
And  how  it  glanced  to  heaven  its  wave, 
As,  wandering  on,  it  sought  its  grave. 


THREE   FANCIFUL   SUPPOSES. 

Were  I  a  breath  of  viewless  wind, 

As  very  spirits  be, 
Where  would  I  joy  at  length  to  find 

I  was  no  longer  free  ? 
O,  Margaret's  cheek, 
Whose  blushes  speak 

Love's  purest  sympathies. 
Would  be  the  site. 
Where,  gleaming  bright. 

My  prison-dome  should  rise  ; 
I'd  live  upon  that  rosy  shore. 

And  fdn  it  with  soft  sif'hs, 
Nor  other  pnradise  explore 

Beneath  the  skies. 

Were  I  a  pranksome  Elfin  knight, 

Or  eke  the  Faerye  king. 
Who,  when  the  moonshine  glimmers  bright, 

JyO\  es  to  be  wandering  ; 


A   CAVEAT   TO   THE   WIND.  11/) 

Where  would  I  ride, 
In  all  the  pride 

Of  Elfin  chivalry, 
With  each  sweet  sound 
Far  floating  round, 

Of  Faerye  minstrelsy  ? — 
'Tis  o'er  her  neck  of  drifted  snow, 

Her  passion-breathing  lip, 
Hei  dainty  chin  and  noble  brow, 

That  I  would  trip. 

Were  I  a  glossy-plumaged  bird, 

A  small  glad  voice  of  song, 
Where  would  my  love-lays  aye  be  heard,— 

Where  would  I  nestle  long  ? — 
In  Margaret's  ear, 
When  none  were  near, 

I'd  strain  my  little  throat, 
To  sing  fond  lays 
In  Margaret's  praise. 

That  could  not  be  forgot ; 
Then  on  her  bosom  would  I  fall, 

And  from  it  never  part, — 
Dizzy  with  joy,  and  proud  to  call 

My  home  her  heart ! 


A  CAVEAT   TO   THE  WIND. 

Sing  high,  sing  low,  thou  moody  wind, 

It  skills  not, — for  thy  glee 
Is  ever  of  a  fellow-kind 

With  mine  own  fantasy. 
Go,  sadly  moan  or  madly  blow 

In  fetterless  free-will. 
Wild  spirit  of  the  clouds  !  but  know 

I  ride  thy  comrade  still ; 


116  A   CAVEAT   TO    THE   WIXI> 

Loving  thy  humors,  T  can  be 

Sad,  wayward,  wild,  or  mad,  like  thee. 

Go,  and  with  light  and  noiseless  wing 

Fan  yonder  murmuring  stream, — 
Brood  o'er  it,  as  the  sainted  thing, 

The  spirit  of  its  dream, — 
Give  to  its  voice  a  sweeter  tone 

Of  calm  and  heartfelt  gladness  ; 
Or,  to  those  old  trees,  woe-begone, 

Add  moan  of  deeper  sadness, — 
It  likes  me  still ;  for  I  can  be 
All  s}"mpathy  of  heart,  like  thee. 

Rush  forth,  in  maddest  wi'ath,  to  rouse 

The  billows  of  the  deep ; 
And,  in  the  blustering  storm,  carouse 

With  fiends  that  never  weep. 
Go,  tear  each  fluttering  rag  away, 

Outshriek  the  mariner. 
And  hoarsely  knell  the  mermaid's  lay 

Of  death  and  ship^vl•eck  drear; — 
What  reck  I,  since  I  still  dare  be 
Harsh,  fierce,  and  pitiless,  like  thee  ? 

I  love  thy  storm-shout  on  the  land, 

Thy  storm-shout  on  the  sea ; 
Though  shapes  of  death  rise  on  each  hand, 

Dismay  troops  not  with  me. 
With  iron  clieek,  tliat  never  showed 

The  channel  of  a  tear, 
AVith  haughty  heart,  that  never  bowed 

Beneath  a  dastard  fear, 
I  rush  with  thee  o'er  land  and  sea, 
llcjoicing  in  thy  thundering  glee. 

Lovest  thou  those  cloisters,  old  and  dim, 

Where  ghosts  at  midnight  stray, 
To  pour  abroad  unearthly  hymn. 


WHAT   IS   GLORY  ?    WHAT   IS   FAME  ?        117 

And  fright  the  stars  away  ? 
Add  to  their  sighs  thy  hollow  tone 

Of  saddest  melancholy, — 
For  I,  too,  love  such  places  lone. 

And  court  such  guests  unjolly ; 
Such  haunts,  such  mates,  in  sooth,  to  me 
Be  welcome  as  they  are  to  thee. 

Blow  as  thou  wilt,  blow  anywhere, 

Wild  spirit  of  the  sky. 
It  matters  not, — earth,  ocean,  air, 

Still  echoes  to  my  cry, 
"I  follow  thee  ; "  for  where  thou  art 

My  spirit,  too,  must  be. 
While  each  cord  of  this  wayward  heart 

Thi-ills  to  thy  minstrelsy ; 
And  he  that  feels  so  sure  must  be 
Meet  co-mate  for  a  shrew  like  thee  ! 


WHAT  IS  GLORY?     WHAT  IS  FAINIE? 

What  is  Glorj'  ?     What  is  Fame  ? 
The  echo  of  a  long-lost  name  ; 
A  breath,  an  idle  hour's  brief  talk ; 
The  shadow  of  an  arrant  naught ; 
A  flower  that  blossoms  for  a  day. 

Dying  next  morrow ; 
A  stream  that  hurries  on  its  way, 

Sin<rin<T  of  sorrow : 
The  last  drop  of  a  bootless  shower, 
Shed  on  a  sere  and  leafless  bower ; 
A  rose,  stuck  in  a  dead  man's  breast, — 
This  is  the  World's  fame  at  the  best ! 

What  is  Fame  ?  and  what  is  Glory  ? 
A  dream, — a  jester's  lying  story, 


118  THE   SOLEMN   SONG  OF   A 

To  tickle  fools  withal,  or  he 

A  theme  for  second  infancy  ; 

A  jolvG  scrawled  on  an  epitaph  ; 

A  grin  at  Death's  own  ghastly  laugh  ; 

A  visioning  that  tempts  the  eye, 

But  mocks  the  touch, — nonentity; 

A  rainbow,  substanceless  as  bright, 

Flitting  forever 
O'er  hill-top  to  more  distant  height, 

Nearing  us  never ; 
A  bubble  blown  by  fond  conceit, 
In  very  sooth  itself  to  cheat ; 
The  witch-fire  of  a  frenzied  brain  ; 
A  fortune  that  to  lose  were  gain ; 
A  word  of  praise,  perchance  of  blame ; 
The  wreck  of  a  time-bandied  name, — 
Ay,  this  is  Glory  ! — this  is  Fame ! 


THE    SOLEMN    SONG    OF  A  RIGHTEOUS 
IIEARTE. 

AFTER  THE  FASHION  OF  AN  EARLT  ENGLISH  POETS. 

There  is  a  mighty  Noyse  of  Bells 
Rusiiing  from  the  turret  free; 

A  solemne  tale  of  Truthe  it  tells. 
O'er  Land  and  Sea, 

How  heartes  be  breaking  fast,  and  then 
Wax  whole  againe. 

Poor  fluttering  Soule  !  why  tremble  soe. 
To  quilt  Lyfe's  fast  decaying  Tree; 

Time  wormes  its  core,  and  it  must  bowe 
To  Fate's  decree ; 

Its  last  branch  breakes,  but  Thou  must  soare, 
For  Evermore. 


RIGHTEOUS   HEARTE.  119 

Noe  more  thy  wing  shal  touch  grosse  Earth ; 

Far  under  shal  its  shadows  (Ice, 
And  al  its  sounds  of  Woe  or  Mirth 

Growe  strange  to  thoe. 
Thou  wilt  not  mingle  in  its  noyse, 

Nor  court  its  Joies. 

Fond  One  !  why  cling  thus  unto  Life, 
As  if  its  gaudes  were  meet  for  thee ; 

Surely  its  Follie,  Bloodshed,  Stryfe, 
Liked  never  thee  ? 

This  World  growes  madder  each  newe  dale, 
Vice  beares  such  sway. 

Couldst  thou  in  Slavish  artes  excel, 

And  crawle  upon  the  supple  knee, — • 

Couldst  thou  each  Woe-worn  wretch  repel,— 
This  Worldes  for  Thee. 

Not  in  this  Spheare  Man  ownes  a  Brother : 
Then  seek  another. 

Couldst  thou  bewraie  thy  Birthright  soe 

As  flatter  Guilt's  prosperitye. 
And  laude  Oppressiounes  iron  blowe, — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee. 
Sithence  to  this  thou  wilt  not  bend, 

Life's  at  an  end. 

Couldst  thou  spurn  Vertue  meanly  clad, 

As  if  'twere  spotted  Infamy, 
And  prayse  as  Good  what  is  most  Bad, — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee. 
Sithence  thou  canst  not  will  it  soe, 

Poor  Flutterer  goe ! 

If  Head  with  Ilearte  could  so  accord. 

In  bond  of  perfyte  Amitie, 
That   Falshood  raigned   in   Thoughte,   Deed, 
Word,— 


120  THK   SOLEMN  SONG,  ETC. 

This  Worldos  for  Thee. 
But  scorning  guile,  Truth-plighted  one ! 
Thy  race  is  run. 

Couklst   thou     laughe     loude,    when  grieved 
liearts  weep, 

And  Fiendlyke  probe  theire  Agonye, 
Rich  harvest  here  thou  soon  Avouldst  reape, — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee  ; 
But  M'ith  the  Weeper  thou  must  weepe, 

And  sad  watch  keep. 

Couldst  thou   smyle  swete  when  Wrong  hath 
wrung 

The  withers  of  the  Poore  but  Prowde, 
And  by  the  rootes  pluck  out  the  tongue 

That  dare  be  lowde 
In  Righteous  cause,  whate'er  may  be, — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee. 

This  canst  thou  not!  Then,  fluttering  thing, 

Unstained  in  thy  puritye, 
Sweep  towards  heaven  with  tireless  wing, — 

Meet  Home  for  Thee. 
Feare  not,  the  crashing  of  Lyfe's  Tree, — 

God's  Love  guides  Thee. 


O" 


And  thus  it  is : — these  solemn  bells, 

Swinging  in  the  turret  free, 
And  tolling  forth  theire  sad  farewells, 

O'er  Land  and  Sea, 
Telle  liow  Hearts  breake,  full  fast,  and  then 


Growe  whole  againe. 


MF.I.AXCIIOLYE.  121 


MELANCIIOLYE. 

Adieu  !  al  vaine  delightes 
Of  calm  and  moonshine  nightcs: 
Adieu  !  al  pleasant  shade 
That  forests  thicke  have  made ; 
Adieu  !   al  nuisick  swete 

That  little  fountaynes  poure, 
When  blythe  theire  waters  greete 

The  lovesick  lyly-flowre. 

Adieu  !  the  fragrant  smel 

Of  flowres  in  boskye  dell ; 

And  all  the  merrie  notes 

That  tril  from  smal  birdes'  throates  ; 

Adieu  !  the  gladsome  lighte 

Of  Day,  Morne,  Noone,  or  E'en  ; 
And  welcome  gloomy  Nighte, 

When  not  one  star  is  seene. 

Adieu  !  the  deafening  noyse 
Of  cities,  and  the  joyes 
Of  Fashioun's  sicklie  birth ; 
Adieu  !  al  boysterous  mirthe, 
Al  pageant,  pompe,  and  state, 

And  every  flauntynge  thing 
To  which  the  would-be-great 

Of  earth  in  madness  cling. 

Come  with  me,  Melancholye, 
AVe'U  live  like  eremites  holie. 
In  some  deepe  uncouthe  wild 
Where  sunbeame  never  smylde : 
Come  with  me,  pale  of  hue. 

To  some  lone  silent  spot, 
Where  blossom  never  grewe. 

Which  man  hath  quyte  forgot. 


122  MELANCHOLYE. 

Come,  with  tliy  thoufjlit-filled  eye, 
That  notes  no  passer  by, 
And  droupiiig  solemne  heade. 
Where  pliansyes  strange  are  bred, 
And  saddenhiix  thouiilits  doc  brood. 

Which  idly  strive  to  bon-ow 
A  smyle  to  vaile  thy  nioode 

Of  heart-abyding  sorrow. 

Come  to  yon  blasted  mound 
Of  phantom-haunted  ground, 
Where  spirits  love  to  be  ; 
And  liste  the  moody  glee 
Of  nighte-windes  as  they  moane, 

And  the  ocean's  sad  replye 
To  the  wild  unhallowed  tone 

Of  the  wandering  sea-bird's  cry. 

There  sit  with  me  and  keep 
Vigil  when  al  doe  sleepe ; 
And  when  the  curfeu  bell 
Hath  rung  its  mournfull  knel, 
Let  us  together  blend 

Our  mutual  sighes  and  teares, 
Or  chaunt  some  metre  penned, 

Of  the  joies  of  other  yeares. 

Or  in  cavern  hoare  and  damp, 
Lit  by  the  glow-worm's  lampe, 
We'll  muse  on  the  dull  theme 
Of  Life's  heart-sickening  dreame,— 
Of  Time's  rcsistlesse  powre, — 

Of  Hope's  deceitful  lips, — 
Of  Beauty's  short-livde  houre, — 

And  Glory's  dark  eclipse  1 

Or,  wouldst  thou  rather  chuse 
This  World's  leaf  to  peruse. 
Beneath  some  dripping  vault 


I   AM    NOT    SAD.  123 

That  scornes  rude  Time's  assaulte 
Whose  close-ribbed  arches  still 

Frown  in  their  green  old  a^e, 
And  stamp  an  awefuU  chill 

Upon  that  pregnant  page  ? 

Yes,  thither  let  us  turne, 
To  this  Time-shattered  urne, 
And  quaintly  carved  stone, — 
Dim  wrackes  of  ages  gone ; 
Here,  on  this  mouldering  tomb, 

We'll  con  that  noblest  truth. 
The  Flesh  and  Spirit's  doome, — 

Dust  and  Immortall  Youthe. 


I  AM  NOT   SAD. 

I  AM  not  sad,  though  sadness  seem 

At  times  to  cloud  my  brow ; 
I  cherished  once  a  foolish  dream, — 
Thank  Heaven,  'tis  not  so  nowl 
Truth's  sunshine  broke. 
And  I  awoke 
To  feel  'twas  right  to  bow 
To  Fate's  decree,  and  this  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

I  grieve  not,  though  a  tear  may  fill 

This  glazed  and  vacant  eye  ; 
Old  thoughts  will  rise,  do  what  we  will, 
But  soon  again  they  die ; 
An  idle  gush. 
And  all  is  hush. 
The  fount  is  soon  run  dry : 
And  cheerly  now  I  meet  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 


124  I   AM  NOT   SAD. 

I  am  not  mad,  although  I  see 
Tilings  of  no  better  mould 
Than  I  myself  am,  greedily 
In  Fame's  bright  page  enrolled, 
That  they  may  tell 
The  story  well, 
What  shines  may  not  be  gold. 
No,  no !  content  I  court  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

The  luck  is  theirs, — the  loss  is  mine, 

And  yet  no  loss  at  all ; 
The  mighty  ones  of  eldest  time, 
I  ask  where  they  did  fall  ? 
Tell  me  the  one 
Who  e'er  could  shun 
Touch  with  Oblivion's  pall  ? 
All  bear  with  me  an  equal  doom. 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

Brave  temple  and  huge  pyramid, 

Hill  sepulchred  by  art. 
The  barrow  acre-vast  where  hid 
Moulders  some  Nimrod's  heart; 
Each  monstrous  birth 
Cumbers  old  earth. 
But  acts  a  voiceless  part, 
Resolving  all  to  mine  own  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

Tradition  with  her  palsied  hand, 

And  purbhnd  History,  may 
Grope  and  guess  well  that  in  this  land 
Some  great  one  lived  his  day; 
And  what^s  this. 
Blind  hit  or  miss. 
But  labor  thrown  away, 
For  counterparts  to  mine  own  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 


THE  JOYS   OF    THE    WILDERNESS,  125 

I  do  not  peak  and  pine  away, 
Lo  !  this  deep  bowl  I  (juaif ; 
If  sigh  I  do,  you  still  must  say 
It  sounds  more  like  a  laugh. 
'Tis  not  too  late 
To  separate 
The  good  seed  from  the  chaff; 
And  scoff  at  those  who  scorn  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

I  spend  no  sigh,  I  shed  no  tear. 

Though  life's  first  dream  is  gone; 
And  its  bright  picturings  now  appear 
Cold  images  of  stone  ; 
I've  learned  to  see 
The  vanity 
Of  lusting  to  be  known, 
And  gladly  hail  my  changeless  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb ! 


THE  JOYS   OF   THE  ^VILDERNESS. 

1  HAVE  a  wish,  and  it  is  this :  that,  in  some  uncouth 

glen, 
It  were  my  lot  to  find  a  spot  unknown  by  selfish 

men ; 
Where  I  might  be  securely  free,  like  Eremite  of 

old. 
From    Worldly   guile,    from   Woman's    wile,    and 

Friendships  brief  and  cold  ; 
And  where  I  might,  with  stern  delight,  enjoy  the 

varied  form 
Of  Nature's  mood,  in  every  rude   burst   of  the 

thundering  storm. 


i.26  A   SOLKMX   COXCEIT. 

Then  would  my  life,  lacking  fierce  strife,  glide  on 
in  dreamy  gladness, 

Nor  would  I  know  the  cark  and  woe  which  come 
of  this  world's  uiadnQss; 

While  in  a  row,  like  some  poor  show,  its  pagean- 
tries would  pass, 

Without  a  sigh,  before  mine  eye,  as  shadows  o'er  a 
glass : 

Nonentity  these  shadows  be, — and  yet,  good  Lord! 
how  brave 

That  knavish  rout  doth  strut  and  flout,  then  shrink 
into  the  <jrave! 

The  Wilderness  breathes  gentleness ; — these  waters 

bubbling  free. 
The   gallant    breeze    that    stirs    the    trees,   form 

Heaven's  own  melody ; 
The  far-stretched  sky,  with  its  bright  eye,  pours 

forth  a  tide  of  love 
On  everything  that  here  doth  spring,  on  all  that 

glows  above. 
But  live  with  man, — his  dark  heart  scan, — its  paltry 

selfishness 
Will  show  to  thee  why  men  like  me  love  the  lone 

Wilderness! 


A   SOLEMN   CONCEIT 

Stately  trees  arc  growing, 
Lusty  winds  arc  blowing, 
And  mighty  rivers  flowing 

On,  forever  on. 
As  stately  forms  were  growing, 
As  lusty  spirits  blowing, 
And  as  mighty  fancies  flowing 

On,  forever  on ; — 


A    SOLEMN   CONCEIT.  127 

But  there  has  been  leave-taking, 
Sorrow,  and  heart-breaking, 
And  a  moan  pale  Echo's  making, 
For  the  gone,  foi'ever  gone ! 

Lovely  stars  are  gleaming, 
Bearded  lights  are  streaming, 
And  glorious  suns  are  beaming 

On,  forever  on. 
As  lovely  eyes  were  gleaming. 
As  wondrous  lights  wei'e  streaming, 
And  as  glorious  minds  were  beaming 

On,  forever  on  ; — 
But  there  has  been  soul-sundering, 
Wailing,  and  sad  wondering  ; 
For  graves  grow  fat  with  plundering 

The  gone,  ibrever  gone ! 

We  see  great  eagles  soaring, 
AYe  hear  deep  oceans  roaring. 
And  sparkling  fountains  pouring 

On,  forever  on. 
As  lofty  minds  were  soaring. 
As  sonorous  voices  roaring. 
And  as  sparkling  wits  were  pouring 

On,  Ibrever  on  ; — 
But  pinions  have  been  shedding. 
And  voiceless  darkness  spreading, 
Since  a  measure  Death's  been  treading 

O'er  the  gone,  forever  gone  ! 

Everything  is  sundering, 
Every  one  is  wondering, 
And  this  huge  globe  goes  thundering 

On,  Ibrever  on ; 
But  'mid  tliis  wearv  sundering, 
Heart-breaking,  and  sad  wondering, 
And  this  huge  globe's  rude  thundering 

On,  forever  on, 


]28  THE   EXPATRIATED. 


I  would  that  I  were  dreaming 
Where  little  flowers  are  gleaming, 
And  the  long  green  grass  is  streaming 
O'er  the  gone,  forever  gone ! 


THE  EXPATRIATED. 

No  bird  is  sinjnnc 

In  cloud  or  on  tree, 
No  eye  is  beaming 

Glad  welcome  to  me  ; 
The  forest  is  tuneless  ; 

Its  brown  leaves  fast  fall, — 
Changed  and  withered,  they  fleet 

Like  hollow  friends  all. 

No  door  is  thrown  open. 

No  banquet  is  spread ; 
No  hand  smooths  the  pillow 

For  the  \Vanderer's  head ; 
But  the  eye  of  distrust 

Sternly  measures  his  way, 
And  glad  are  the  cold  lips 

That  wish  him — good  day  I 

Good  day  ! — I  am  grateful 

For  such  gentle  prayer, 
Though  scant  be  the  cost 

Of  that  morsel  of  air. 
Will  it  clothe,  will  it  feed  me, 

Or  rest  my  worn  frame  ? 
Good  day  !  wholesome  diet, 

A  proud  heart  to  tame  1 

Now  the  sun  dusks  his  glories 
Below  the  blue  sea, 


FACTS   FROM   FAIRY-LAXD.  129 

And  no  star  its  splendor 

Deems  worthy  of  me  ; 
The  path  I  must  travel 

Grows  dark  as  my  fate, 
And  nature,  like  man,  can 

Wax  savajire  in  hate. 

My  country  !  my  country ! 

Though  step-dame  thou  be, 
Yet  my  heart,  in  its  anguish, 

Cleaves  fondly  to  thee  ; 
Still  in  fancy  it  lingers 

By  mountain  and  stream, 
And  thy  name  is  the  spirit 

That  rules  its  wild  dream. 

This  heart  loved  thee  truly, — 

And,  O  !  it  bled  free, 
When  it  led  on  to  glory 

Thy  proud  chivalry ; 
And,  O  !  it  gained  much  from 

Thy  prodigal  hand, — 
The  freedom  to  break  in 

The  stranger's  cold  land ! 


FACTS  FROM  FAIRY-LAND. 

"  0,  then,  I  see,  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  yoB !  * 

WouLDST  thou  know  of  me 
Where  our  dwellings  be  ? 
'Tis  under  this  hill. 
Where  the  moonbeam  chill 

Silvers  the  leaf  and  brightens  the  blade, — 
'Tis  under  this  mound 
Of  greenest  ground. 

That  our  crystal  palaces  are  made. 
9 


130  FACTS    FROM   FAIRY-LANI>. 

"Wouldst  tliou  know  of  me 

What  our  food  may  be  ? 

'Tis  the  sweetest  breath 

Which  the  bright  flower  hath, 
That  blossoms  in  wilderness  afar, — 

And  we  sip  it  up, 

In  a  liarebell  cup, 
By  the  winking  light  of  the  tweering  star. 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me 

What  our  drink  may  be  ? 

'Tis  the  freshest  dew, 

And  the  clearest,  too. 
That  ever  hung  on  leaf  or  flower : 

And  merry  we  skink 

That  wholesome  drink, 
Thorough  the  quiet  of  the  midnight  hour. 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me 

What  our  pastimes  be  ? 

'Tis  the  hunt  and  halloo. 

The  dim  greenwood  through ; 
O,  bravely  we  prance  it  with  hound  and  horn, 

O'er  moor  and  fell. 

And  hollow  dell, 
Till  the  notes  of  our  Woodcraft  wake  the  morn 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me 

What  our  garments  be  ? 

*Tis  the  viewless  thread 

Which  the  gossamers  spread 
As  they  float  in  the  cool  of  a  summer  eve  bright, 

And  the  down  of  the  rose. 

Form  doublet  and  hose 
For  our  Squires  of  Dames  on  each  festal  night. 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me 
When  our  revelries  be  V 
'Tis  in  the  still  night 
When  the  moonshine  white 


VERSES    TO    THE    LADY   OF    MY   HEART.    131 

Glitters  in  glory  o'er  land  and  sea. 

That,  with  nimble  foot, 

To  tabor  and  flute, 
We  whirl  with  our  loves  round  yon  glad  old  tree. 


CERTAIN  PLEASANT  VERSES  TO  THE 
LADY  OF  MY  HEART. 

The  raunnur  of  the  merry  brook, 

As  <i;uslun<rlv  and  free 
It  wimples,  with  its  sun-bright  look, 

Far  down  yon  sheltered  lea. 
Humming  to  every  drowsy  flower 

A  low,  quaint  lullaby. 
Speaks  to  my  spirit,  at  this  hour, 

Of  Love  and  thee. 

The  music  of  the  gay,  green  wood, 

When  every  leaf  and  tree 
Is  coaxed  by  winds  of  gentlest  mood, 

To  utter  harmony ; 
And  the  small  birds  that  answer  make 

To  the  wind's  fitful  glee, 
In  me  most  blissful  visions  wake, 

Of  Love  and  thee. 

The  rose  perks  up  its  blushing  cheek, 

So  soon  as  it  can  see 
Along  the  eastern  hills  one  streak 

Of  the  Sun's  majesty  : 
Laden  with  dewy  gems,  it  gleams 

A  precious  freight  to  me, 
For  each  pure  drop  thereon  meseema 

A  type  of  thee. 

And  when,  abroad  in  summer  morn, 
I  hear  the  blithe,  bold  bee 


132  BEXEATH   A   PLACID   BROW. 

Winding  aloft  his  tiny  horn, 

(An  errant  knight  pcrdy,) 
That  winged  hunter  of  rare  sweets 

O'er  many  a  far  country, 
To  me  a  lay  of  love  repeats, 

Its  subject — thee. 

And  when,  in  midnight  hour,  I  note 

The  stars  so  pensively. 
In  their  mild  beauty,  onward  float 

Through  heaven's  own  silent  sea; 
My  heart  is  in  their  voyaging 

To  realms  where  spirits  be, 
But  its  mate,  in  such  wandering, 

Is  ever  thee  ! 

But  0,  the  murmur  of  the  brook, 

The  music  of  the  tree  ; 
The  rose,  with  its  sweet,  shamefaced  xook, 

The  booming  of  the  bee  ; 
The  course  of  each  bright  voyager 

In  heaven's  unmeasured  sea. 
Would  not  one  heart-pulse  of  me  stir, 

Loved  I  not  thee  ! 


BENEATH  A  PLACID  BROW. 

Beneath  a  placid  brow 

And  tear-unstained  cheek, 
To  bear  as  I  do  now 

A  heart  that  well  could  break ; 
To  sinuilate  a  smile 

Amid  the  wrecks  of  grief, — 
To  herd  among  the  vile, 

And  tlierein  seek  relief, — 


BENEATH   A   PLACID   BROW.  133 

For  the  bitterness  of  tliought 
Were  joyance  dearly  bought. 

When  will  man  learn  to  bear 

His  heart  nailed  on  his  breast, 
With  all  its  lines  of  care 

In  nakedness  confessed  ? — 
Why,  in  this  solemn  mask 

Of  passion-wasted  life, 
Will  no  one  dare  the  task. 

To  speak  his  sorrows  rife  ? — 
Will  no  one  bravely  tell, 
His  bosom  is  a  hell  ? 

I  scorn  this  hated  scene 

Of  masking  and  disguise, 
Where  men  on  men  still  gleam, 

With  falseness  in  their  eyes ; 
Where  all  is  counterfeit. 

And  truth  hath  never  say ; 
Where  hearts  themselves  do  cheat, 

Concealing  hope's  decay. 
And,  writhing  at  the  stake. 
Themselves  do  liars  make. 

Go,  search  thy  heart,  poor  fool ' 

And  mark  its  passions  well ; 
'Twere  time  to  go  to  school, — 

'Twere  time  the  truth  to  tell, — 
'Twere  time  this  world  should  cast 

Its  infant  slough  away. 
And  hearts  burst  forth  at  last 

Into  the  light  of  day  : — 
'Twere  time  all  learned  to  be 
Fit  for  Eternity  I 


134       THE   covenanters'   BATTLE-CHANT. 


THE  COVENANTERS'  BATTLE-CHANT 

To  battle  !  to  battle  ! 

To  slaughter  and  strife  ! 
For  a  sad,  broken  Covenant 

We  barter  poor  life. 
The  great  God  of  Judah 

Shall  smite  with  our  hand, 
And  break  down  the  idols 

That  cumber  the  land- 
Uplift  every  voice 

In  prayer,  and  in  song ; 
Remember  the  battle 

Is  not  to  the  strong  ; — ■ 
Lo,  the  Ammonites  thicken  ! 

And  onward  they  come, 
To  the  vain  noise  of  trumpet, 

Of  cymbal,  and  drum. 

They  haste  to  the  onslaught, 

With  hagbut  and  spear  ; 
They  lust  i'or  a  ban(juet 

That's  dcathful  and  dear. 
Now  horseman  and  footman 

Sweep  down  the  hill-side  : 
They  come,  like  fierce  Phaiaohs, 

To  die  in  their  pride  ! 

See,  long  plume  and  pennon 

Stream  gay  in  the  air  ; 
They  are  given  us  for  slaughter, — - 

Shall  God's  people  spare  ? 
Nay,  nay  ;  lo])  them  off, — 

Friend,  father,  anil  son  ; 
All  earth  is  atliirst  till 

The  good  work  be  done. 


TIM   THE   TACKET.  135 

Brace  tight  every  buckler, 

Anil  lift  liigli  the  sword  ! 
For  Ijitiiisi  must  blades  be 

That  fight  for  the  Lord. 
Renieniber,  remember, 

How  Saints'  blood  was  shed, 
As  free  as  the  rain,  and 

Homes  desolate  made  ! 

Among  them  ! — among  them  I 

Unburied  bones  cry  ; 
Avenge  us, — or,  like  us,. 

Faith's  true  martyrs  die. 
Hew,  hew  down  the  spoilers ! 

Slay  on,  and  spare  none  : 
Then  shout  forth  in  gladness, 

Heaven's  battle  is  won ! 


TIM   THE   TACKET. 

A  LTEICAL  BALL.\D,    SUPPOSED   TO   BE  WRITTEN   BT  W.   TT. 

A  BARK  is  lying  on  the  sands, 
No  rippling  wave  is  sparkling  near  her; 
She  seems  unmanned  of  all  her  hands, — 
There's  not  a  soul  on  board  to  steer  her  1 

'Tis  strange  to  see  a  shipshape  thing 
Upon  a  lonely  beach  tiuis  lying, 
While  mystic  winds  forever  sing 
Among  its  shrouds  like  spirits  sighing. 

O,  can  it  be  a  spectre-ship, 
Forwearied  of  the  storm  and  ocean, 
That  here  hath  ended  its  last  trip, 
And  sought  repose  from  ceaseless  motion  ? 


136  TIM   THE   TACKET. 

I  deem  amiss :  for  yonder,  see, 

A  sailor  struts  in  dark-bluejacket, — 

A  little  man  witli  face  of  glee, — 

His  neighbors  call  him  Tim  the  Tacket 

I  know  him  well ;  the  master  he 

Of  a  small  bark, — an  Irish  coaster ; 

His  heart  is  like  the  ocean,  free, 

And  like  the  breeze  his  tongue's  a  boaster 

He  is  a  father,  too,  I'm  told. 
Of  children  ten,  and  some  say  twenty; 
But  it's  no  matter,  he's  grown  old. 
And,  ten  or  more,  he  has  got  plenty  ! 

List !  now  he  sings  a  burly  stave 

Of  waves  and  winds  and  shipwrecks  many, 

Of  llying-fish  and  dolphins  brave. 

Of  mermaids  lovely  but  uncanny. 

Right  oft,  I  ween,  he  joys  to  speak 

Of  slim  maids  in  the  green  waves  dancmg, 

Or  sinsriniT  in  some  lonesome  creek, 

While  kembing  locks  like  sunbeams  glancmg. 

O,  he  hath  tales  of  wondrous  tilings 
Spied  in  the  vast  and  gousty  ocean; 
Of  monstrous  fish,  whose  giant  springs 
Give  to  the  seas  their  rocking  motion  ; 

And  serpents  huge  whose  rings  embrace 
Some  round  leagues  of  the  great  Pacific ; 
And  men  of  central  Ind,  sans  face. 
But  not  on  that  head  less  temfic ! 

Lo  !  he  hath  lit  a  brown  cigar, 
A  special,  smooth-skinned,  real  Havanna ; 
And  swirling  smoke  he  puffs  afar, — 
'Tis  sweet  to  him  as  desert  manna  I 


TIM    THE   TACKET.  137 

Away,  away  tlie  reek  doth  po, 
In  wiry  tliread  or  lieavy  volume ; 
Now  black,  now  blue,  gold,  gray,  or  snow 
In  color,  and  in  heiglit  a  column  ! 

His  little  eyes,  deep-set,  and  hedged 
All  round  and  round  with  bristles  hoary, 
Do  twinkle  like  a  hawk's  new-fledged, — 
Sure  he  hath  dreams  of  marvellous  glory  1 

Well,  I  would  rather  be  that  wight. 
Contented,  puflSng,  midst  his  tackling, 
Than  star-gemmed  lord  or  gartered  knight, 
In  masquerade  or  senate  cackling. 

He  suns  his  limbs  upon  the  deck. 
He  hears  the  music  of  the  ocean  ; 
He  lives  not  on  another's  beck. 
He  pines  not  after  court  promotion. 

He  is  unto  himself, — he  is 
A  little  world  within  another; 
And  furthermore  he  knoweth  this, 
That  all  mankind  to  him  is  brother. 

He  sings  his  songs,  and  smokes  his  weed, 
He  spins  his  yarn  of  monstrous  fables, 
He  cracks  his  biscuit,  and  at  need 
Can  soundly  sleep  on  coiled-up  cables. 

Although  the  sea  be  sometimes  rough, 
His  bark  is  stout,  its  rudder  steady, 
At  other  whiles  'tis  calm  enough, 
And  buxom  as  a  gentle  lady 

In  sooth,  too,  'tis  a  pleasant  thing. 
To  sail,  and  feel  the  sea-breeze  blowing 
About  one's  cheek, — O  !  such  doth  bring 
Full  many  a  free-born  thought  and  glo.wlng. 


138  THE  ■witches'  joys. 

For  who  upon  the  deep,  deep  sea 

Ere  dwelt,  and  saw  its  great  breast  heaving, 

But,  by  a  kindred  sympathy. 

Felt  his  own  heart  its  trammels  leaving  ? 

The  wide  and  wild,  the  strange  and  grand, 
Commingle  with  his  inmost  spirit ; 
He  fuels  a  riddance  from  the  land, — • 
A  boundlessness  he  may  inherit. 

Good  nijiht,  thou  happy,  ancient  man ! 
Farewell,  thou  mariner  so  jolly! 
I  pledge  thee  in  this  social  can. 
Thou  antipode  of  melancholy  ! 


THE  AVITCHES'  JOYS. 

I. 

When  night  winds  rave 
O'er  the  fresh-scooped  grave, 
And  the  dead  therein  that  lie 
Glare  upward  to  the  sky  ; 
When  gibbering  imps  sit  down, 
To  feast  on  lord  or  clown, 
And  tear  the  shroud  away 
From  their  lithe  and  pallid  prey ; 
Then,  clustering  close,  how  grim 
They  munch  each  withered  limbl 
Or  quarrel  for  dainty  rare, 
The  lip  of  lady  fair, — 
The  tonjjue  of  high-born  dame, 
That  never  would  defame. 
And  was  of  scandal  free 
As  any  mute  could  be  ! 
Or  suck  the  tintless  cheek 
Of  maiden  mild  and  meek  ; 
And  when  in  revel  rout 


THE    witches'  joys.  139 

Tliey  kick  peeled  skulls  about, 
And  shout  in  maddest  mirth, — 
These  dull  toys  awed  the  earth ! 

O  then,  O  then,  O  then, 

We  hurry  forth  amain  ; 
For  with  such  eldritch  cries 
Begin  our  revelries  I 

II. 

When  the  murderer's  blanched  corse 
Swings  with  a  sighing  hoarse 
From  gibbet  and  from  chain, 
As  the  bat  sucks  out  his  brain. 
And  the  owlet  pecks  his  eyes, 
And  the  wild  fox  gnaws  his  thighs  ; 
While  the  raven  croaks  with  glee. 
Lord  of  the  dead  man's  tree, 
And^. rocked  on  that  green  skull, 
With  sated  look  and  dull, 
In  gloomy  pride  looks  o'er 
The  waste  and  wildered  moor, 
And  dreams  some  other  day 
Shall  bring  him  fresher  prey ; 
When  over  bog  and  fen, 
To  lure  wayfaring  men, 
Malicious  spirits  trail 
A  ground  fire  thin  and  pale. 
Which  the  belated  wight 
Pursues  the  livelong  night, 
Till  in  the  treacherous  ground 
An  unmade  grave  is  found, — 

O  then,  O  then,  O  then, 

We  hurry  forth  amain  ; 
Ha!  ha!  his  feeble  cries 
Begin  our  i-evelries. 

III. 

When  the  spirits  of  the  North 
Hurl  howUng  tempests  forth ; 


140  THE    witches'  joys. 

"WTien  seas  of  lightning  flare, 

And  thanders  choke  the  air; 

AVhen  tlie  ocean  starts  to  life, 

To  madness,  horror,  strife, 

And  the  goodly  bark  breaks  up, 

Like  ungirded  drinking-cup. 

And  eacli  stately  mast  is  split 

In  some  rude  thunder-fit; 

And,  like  feather  on  the  foam, 

Float  shattered  plank  and  boom; 

When,  'midst  tlie  tempest's  roar, 

Pale  listeners  on  the  shore 

Hear  the  curse  and  shriek  of  men, 

As  they  sink  and  rise  again 

On  the  gurly  billow's  back, 

And  their  strong,  broad  breast-bones  crack 

On  the  iron-ribbed  coast, 

As  back  to  hell  they're  tossed, — 

O  then,  O  then,  O  then, 

We  hurry  forth  again! 
For  amid  such  lusty  cries 
Begin  our  revelries. 

IV. 

When  aged  parents  flee 

The  noble  vvi-eck  to  see. 

And  mark  their  sons  roll  in 

Through  foam  and  thundering  din, 

All  mottled  black  and  blue, — 

Their  very  lips  cut  through 

In  the  agony  of  dcatii. 

While  drifting  on  their  path; 

When  gentle  maidens  stand 

Upon  the  wreck-rich  strand, 

And  every  laboring  wave 

That  doth  their  small  feet  lave 

Gives  them  a  ghastly  lover 

To  wring  their  white  hands  over, 

And  tear  their  spray-wet  hair 


A   SABBATH   SUMMER   NOOX.  HI 

In  the  madness  of  despair, — 

O  then,  O  tlien,  O  then, 

We  hurry  home  amain  ; 
For  their  heart-piercing  cries 
Shame  our  wild  revelries ! 


A   SABBATH   SUMMER  NOON. 

The  calmness  of  this  noontide  hour, 

The  shadow  of  this  wood, 
The  fragrance  of  each  wilding  flower, 

Are  marvellously  good ; 
O,  here  crazed  spirits  breathe  the  balm 

Of  nature's  solitude ! 

It  is  a  most  delicious  calm 
That  resteth  everywhere, — 

The  holiness  of  soul-sung  psalm, 
Of  felt  but  voiceless  prayer  ! 

With  hearts  too  full  to  speak  their  bliss, 
God's  creatures  silent  are. 

They  silent  are ;  but  not  the  less, 

In  this  most  tranquil  hour 
Of  deep,  unbroken  dreaminess. 

They  own  that  Love  and  Power 
Which,  like  the  softest  sunshine,  rests 

On  every  leaf  and  flower. 

How  silent  are  the  song-filled  nests 
That  crowd  this  drowsy  tree, — 

How  mute  is  every  feathered  breast 
That  swelled  with  melody  ! 

And  yet  bright  bead-like  eyes  declare 
This  hour  is  ecstasy. 


142  A   SABBATH   SUMMER  NOON. 

Heart  forth !  as  uncaged  bird  through  aiB 

And  mingle  in  the  tide 
Of  blessed  things,  that,  lacking  care, 

Now  full  of  beauty- glide 
Around  thee,  in  their  angel  hues 

Of  joy  and  sinless  pride. 

Here,  on  this  green  bank  that  o'erviews 

The  far-retreating  glen, 
Beneath  the  spreading  beech-tree  muse, 

On  all  within  thy  ken; 
For  lovelier  scene  sliall  never  break 

On  thy  dimmed  sight  again. 

Slow  stealing  from  the  tangled  brake 

That  skirts  the  distant  hill. 
With  noiseless  hoof,  two  bright  fawns  make 

For  yonder  lapsing  rill ; 
Meek  children  of  the  forest  gloom, 

Drink  on,  and  fear  no  ill ! 

And  buried  in  the  yellow  broom 

That  crowns  the  neighboi-ing  height, 

Couches  a  loutish  shepherd  groom, 
With  all  his  flocks  in  sight ; 

Which  dot  the  green  braes  gloriously 
With  spots  of  living  light. 

It  is  a  siirht  that  filleth  me 

With  meditative  joy, 
To  mark  these  dumb  things  curiously 

Crowd  round  their  guardian  boy; 
As  if  they  felt  this  Sabbath  hour 

Of  bliss  lacked  all  alloy. 

I  bend  me  towards  the  tiny  flower, 

That  underneath  this  tree 
Opens  its  little  breast  of  sweets 

In  meekest  modesty. 


A    SABBATH   SUMMER  NOON.  143 

And  breathes  the  eloquence  of  love 
In  muteness,  Lord !  to  thee. 

There  is  no  breath  of  wind  to  move 
The  flag-Hke  leaves,  that  spread 

Their  grateful  shadow  far  above 
This  tui-f-supported  head ; 

All  sounds  are  gone, — all  murmurlngs 
With  living  nature  wed. 

The  babbling  of  the  clear  well-springs, 

The  whisperings  of  the  trees, 
And  all  the  cheerful  jargonings 

Of  feathered  hearts  at  ease, 
That  whilom  filled  the  vocal  wood, 

Have  hushed  their  minstrelsies. 

The  silentness  of  night  doth  brood 
O'er  this  bright  summer  noon  ; 

And  nature,  in  her  holiest  mood, 
Doth  all  things  well  attune 

To  joy,  in  the  religious  dreams 
Of  green  and  leafy  June. 

Far  down  the  glen  in  distance  gleams 

The  hamlet's  tapering  spire, 
And,  glittering  in  meridial  beams. 

Its  vane  is  tongued  with  fire; 
And  hark  how  sweet  its  silvery  bell, — 

And  hark  the  rustic  choir ! 

The  holy  sounds  tloat  up  the  dell 

To  fill  my  ravished  ear. 
And  now  the  glorious  anthems  swell 

Of  worsliippers  sincere, — 
Of  hearts  bowed  in  the  dust,  that  shed 

Faith's  penitential  tear. 

Dear  Lord  !  thy  shadow  is  forth  spread 
On  all  mine  eye  can  see  ; 


144  A    9ABBATH   SUMMER   NOON. 

And  filled  at  the  pure  fountain-head 

Of  deepest  piety, 
My  heart  loves  all  created  things, 

And  travels  home  to  thee. 

Around  me  while  the  sunshine  flings 

A  flood  of  mocky  gold, 
My  chastened  spirit  once  more  sings, 

As  it  was  wont  of  old, 
That  lay  of  gratitude  which  burst 

From  vounfT  heart  uncontrolled. 

When  in  the  midst  of  nature  nursed, 

Sweet  influences  fell 
On  chidly  hearts  that  were  athirst, 

Like  soft  dews  in  the  bell 
Of  tender  flowers,  that  bowed  their  heads 

And  breathed  a  fresher  smell, — 

So,  even  now  this  hour  hath  sped 
In  rapturous  thought  o'er  me. 

Feeling  myself  with  nature  wed, — 
A  holy  mystery, — ■ 

A  part  of  earth,  a  part  of  heaven, 
A  part,  great  God !  of  Thee. 

Fast  fade  the  cares  of  life's  dull  sweven, 

They  perish  as  the  weed. 
While  unto  me  the  power  is  given, 

A  moral  deep  to  read 
In  every  silent  throe  of  mind 

External  beauties  breed. 


i 


A   MONODY.  115 


A  MONODY. 

I. 

Hour  after  hour, 

Day  after  clay, 
Some  gentle  flower 

Or  loaf  gives  way 
Within  the  bower 

Of  human  hearts ; 
Tear  after  tear 

In  anguish  starts, 
For,  green  or  sere, 

Some  loved  leaf  parts 
From  the  arbere 

Of  human  hearts  ; — 
The  keen  winds  blow ; 
Rain,  hail,  and  snow 

Fall  everywhere ! 
And  one  by  one. 
As  life's  sands  run. 

These  loved  things  fare, 
Till  plundered  hearts  at  last  are  won 

To  woo  despair. 

II. 

Why  linger  on. 

Fate's  mockery  here. 
When  each  is  gone, 

Heart-loved,  heart-dear  ? 
Stone  spells  to  stone 

Its  weary  talc, 
How  graves  were  filled, 

How  cheeks  waxed  pale, 
How  hearts  were  chilled 

With  biting  gale. 
And  life's  strings  thrilled 

With  sorrow's  wail. 
10 


14G  A   MONODY. 

Flower  follows  flower 
In  the  heart's  bower, 

To  fleet  away ; 
While  leaf  on  leaf, 
Sharp  grief  on  grief, 

Kight  chasing  day, 
Tell  as  they  fall,  all  joy  b  Vief, 

Life  but  decay. 

III. 

The  sea-weed  thrown 

By  wave  or  wind 
On  strand  unknown, 

Lone  grave  to  find, 
Methinks  may  own 

Of  kindred  more 
Than  I  dare  claim 

On  life's  bleak  shore 
Name  follows  name 

For  evermore, 
As  swift  waves  shame 

Slow  waves  before  ;— 
For  keen  winds  blow; 
Kain,  hail,  and  snow 

Fall  everywhere, 
Till  life's  sad  tree>. 
In  mockery, 

Skeletoned  bare 
Of  every  leaf,  is  left  to  be 

Mate  of  des2)air. 

IV. 

The  world  is  wide, 

Is  rich  and  fair, 
'Its  things  of  pride 

Flaunt  everywhere  J 
But  can  it  hide 

Its  hollowness  ? 
One  mighty  shell 


A   MONODY.  147 

Of  bitterness, 
One  grand  farewell 

To  happiness, 
One  solemn  knell 

To  love's  caress, 
It  seems  to  me. 
The  shipless  sea 

Hath  bravery  more 
Tlian  this  waste  scene. 
Where  wliat  hath  been 

Beloved  of  yore, 
In  the  hearl's  bower  so  fresh  and  green, 

Fades  evermore ! 

V. 

From  all  its  kind. 

This  wasted  heart, 
This  moody  mind, 

Now  drifts  apart ! 
It  longs  to  find 

The  tideless  shore. 
Where  rests  the  wreck 

Of  Heretofore, — 
The  glorious  wreck 

Of  mental  ore ; 
The  great  heartbreak 

Of  loves  no  more. 
I  drift  alone. 
For  all  are  gone 

Dearest  to  me ; 
And  hail  the  wave 
That  to  the  grave 

On  hurrieth  me : 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  then,  thy  wave, 

Eternity  ! 


148  THE   MERRY   SUMMER   MONTHS. 


THEY  COME!  THE  MERRY  SUMMER 
MONTHS. 

They  come !  the  merry  summer  months  of  Beauty, 

Song,  and  Flowers ; 
They  come  !  the  gla(]some  months  that  bring  thick 

leafiness  to  bowers. 
Up,  up,  my  heart!    and  walk  abroad,  fling  cark 

and  care  aside, 
Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful 

watei-s  glide ; 
Or,   underneath   the   shadow   vast   of  patriarchal 

tree. 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt 

tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  yelvet  touch  is  grateful  to  the 
hand. 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze  is 
sweet  and  bland ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding  courte- 
ously, 

It  stirs  their  blood,  with  kindest  love,  to  bless  and 
welcome  thee : 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks — they 
now  are  silvery  gray — 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whispering, 
"Be  gay!" 

Ticre  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of  yon 

sky,. 
But   hath    its    owr.   winged   mariners    to    give    it 

melody : 
Thou    seest    their    glittering    fans    outspread,    all 

gleaming  like  red  gold. 
And  hark !    with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry 

course  they  hold. 


THE   MERRY   SUMMER   MONTHS.  145 

God  bless  tliem  all,  these  little  ones,  who,  far  above 

this  earth, 
Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a 

nobler  mirth. 

But  soft !  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound,— ?ron  yonder 

wood  it  came  ! 
The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  hia 

own  glad  name  ; — 
Yes,  it  is  he  !  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart  from  all 

his  kind, 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft  western 

wind ; 
Cuckoo!    Cuckoo!   he  sings  again, — his  notes  are 

void  of  art, 
But  simplest  strains   do  soonest  sound  the  deep 

founts  of  the  heart. 

Good  Lord !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought-crazed 

wight  like  me. 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this 

summer  tree ! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little  souls 

away. 
And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's 

bright  summer  day. 
When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the  reckless, 

truant  boy 
Wandered   through  greenwoods   all  day  long,   a 

mighty  heart  of  joy  ! 

I'm  sadder  now,  I  have  had  cause ;   but  0 1  I'm 

proud  to  think 
That   each   pure  joy-fount  loved  of  yore,  I  yet 

delight  to  drink  ; — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the  calm, 

unclouded  sky. 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the  days 

gone  by. 


150     CHANGE  SWKEPETH  OVER  ALL. 

When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round  me 

dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse, — a  heart  that 

hath  waxed  old ! 


CHANGE   SWEEPETH  OVER  ALL. 

Change  sweepeth  over  all ! 

In  showers  leaves  fall 
From  the  tall  forest-tree  ; 

On  to  the  sea 
M^ijestic  rivers  roll. 

It  is  their  goal. 
Each  speeds  to  perish,  in  man's  simple  seeming,— 

Each  disappears : 
One  common  end  o'ertakes  life's  idle  dreaming, 

Dust,  darkness,  tears ! 

Day  hurries  to  its  close  : 

The  sun,  that  rose 
A  miracle  of  light, 

Yieldeth  to  night; 
The  skirt  of  one  vast  pall 

O'ershadows  all. 
Yon  firmamental  cresset  lights  forth  shining, 

Heaven's  highest  born  ! 
Droop  on  their  thrones,  and,  like  pale  spirits  pining, 

Vanisii  with  morn. 

O'er  cities  of  old  days. 

Dumb  creatures  graze ; 
Palace  and  pyramid 

In  dust  are  hid ; 
Yea,  the  sky-searching  tower 

Stands  but  its  hour. 


J 


O,   WAE    BE    TO    THE    ORDERS.  151 

Oceans  their  -wide-stretched  beds  are  ever  shifting, 

Sea  turns  to  shore, 
And  stars  and  systems  through  dread  space  are 
drifting, 

To  shine  no  more. 

Names  perish  that  erst  smote 

Nations  remote, 
With  panic,  fear,  or  wrong; 

Heroic  song 
Grapples  with  time  in  vain  ; 
On  to  the  main 
Of  dim  forgetful  11  ess  forever  rollini. 

Earth's  bubbles  burst ; 
Time  o'er  the  wreck  of  ages  sternly  tolling 
The  last  accursed. 

The  world  is  waxing  old, 
Heaven  dull  and  cold  ; 
Naught  lacketh  here  a  close 

Save  human  woes. 
Yet  they  too  have  an  end, — • 
Death  is  man's  friend  : 
Doomed  for  a  while,  his  heart  must  go  on  breaking, 

Day  after  day. 
But  light,  love,  life, — all, — all  at  last  forsaking, 
Clay  claspeth  clay ! 


O,  WAE   BE   TO   THE   ORDERS. 

O,  WAE  be  to  the  orders  that  marched  my  luve 

awa', 
And  wae  be  to  the  cruel  cause  that  gars  my  tears 

doun  fa', 
O,  wae  be  to  the  bluidy  wars  in  Hie  Germanie, 
For  they  hae  ta'en  my  luve,  and  left  a  broken  heart 

to  me. 


152  O,   "WAE   BE   TO    THE   ORDERS. 

The  drums  beat  in  the  mornin'  <afore  the  scriecb 

o'day, 
And  the  wee  wee  fifes  piped  loud  and  shrill,  wliile 

yet  the  morn  was  gray  ; 
The  bonnie  flags  were  a'  unfurled,  a  gallant  sight 

to  see, 
But  waes  me  for  my  sodger  lad  that  marched  to 

Germanie. 

O,  lans,  lang  is  the  travel  to  the  bonnie  Pier  o* 
Leith, 

O,  dreich  it  is  to  gang  on  foot  wi'  the  snaw-drift  in 
the  teeth ! 

And,  O,  the  cauld  wind  froze  the  tear  that  gath- 
ered in  my  e'e, 

"When  I  gade  there  to  see  my  luve  embark  for  Ger- 


I  looked  ower  the  braid,  blue  sea,  sae  long  as  could 

be  seen 
Ae  wee  bit  sail  upon  the  ship  that  my  sodger  lad 

was  in ; 
But  the  wind  was  blawin'  sair  and  snell,  and  the 

ship  sailed  speedille, 
And  the  waves  and  cruel  wars  hae  twinned   my 

winsome  luve  frae  me. 

I  never  think  o'  dancin',  and  I  downa  try  to  sing, 
But  a'  the  day  I  spier  what  news  kind  neibour 

bodies  bring ; 
I  sometimes  knit  a  stocking,  if  knittin'  it  may  be, 
Syne  for  every  loop  that  I  cast  on,  I  am  sure  to  let 

doun  three. 

My  father  says  I'm  in  a  pet,  my  mither  jeers  at  me. 
And  bans  me  for  a  dautit  wean,  in  dorts  for  aye  to  be; 
But  little  weet  they  o'  the  cause  that  drumles  sae 

my  e'e : 
O,  they  hae  nae  winsome  luve  like  mine  in  the 

wars  o'  Germanie ! 


wearie's   well.  153 


WEARIE'S   WELL. 

Iv  a  saft  simmer  gloamin', 

In  yon  dowie  dell, 
It  was  there  we  twa  first  met 

By  Wearie's  cauld  well, 
We  sat  on  the  brume  bank, 

And  looked  in  the  burn. 
But  sidelang  we  looked  on 

Ilk  ither  in  turn. 

The  corn-craik  was  chirminj 

His  sad  eerie  cry. 
And  the  wee  stars  were  dreaming 

Their  path  through  the  sky  ; 
The  burn  babbled  freely 

Its  love  to  ilk  flower. 
But  we  heard  and  we  saw  naught 

In  that  blessed  hour. 

We  heard  and  we  saw  naught 

Above  or  around ; 
We  felt  that  our  love  lived, 

And  loathed  idle  sound. 
I  gazed  on  your  sweet  face 

Till  tears  filled  my  c'e. 
And  they  drapt  on  your  wee  loof,- 

A  warld's  wealth  to  me. 

Now  the  winter's  snaw's  fa'ing 

On  bare  holm  and  lea  ; 
And  the  cauld  wind  is  strippiu* 

Ilk  leaf  aff  the  tree. 
But  the  snaw  fa's  not  faster, 

Nor  leaf  disna  part 
Sae  sune  frae  the  bough,  as 

Faith  fades  in  vour  heart. 


154  SOXG   OF   THE    DANISH  SEA-KJLNG. 

Ye've  waled  out  anither 

Your  bridegroom  to  be  ; 
But  can  Lis  heart  luve  sae 

As  mine  luvit  thee  ? 
Ye'll  get  biggings  and  mailins, 

And  monie  braw  claes  ; 
But  they  a'  Avinna  buy  back 

The  peace  o'  past  days. 

Fareweel,  and  forever, 

My  first  luve  and  last, 
May  thy  joys  be  to  come, — 

Mine  live  in  the  past. 
In  sorrow  and  sadness. 

This  hour  fa's  on  me  ; 
But  light  as  thy  luve,  may 

It  fleet  over  thee  ! 


SONG   OF  THE  DiVNISH  SEA-KING. 

Our  bark  is  on  the  waters  deep,  our  bright  blade's 

in  our  hand, 
Our  birthright  is  the  ocean  vast, — we   scorn  the 

girdled  land  ; 
And  the  hollow  wind  is  our  music  brave,  and  none 

can  bolder  be 
Than  the   hoarse-tongued  tempest  raving  o'er  a 

proud  and  swelling  sea ! 

Dur  bark  is  dancing  on  the  waves,  its  tall  masts 
quivering  bend 

Before  the  gale,  which  hails  us  now  with  the  hollo 
of  a  friend ; 

And  ite  prow  is  sheering  merrily  the  upcurled  bil- 
low's foam. 

While  our  hearts,  with  throbbing  gladness,  cheer 
old  Ocean  as  our  home  ! 


SONG   OF    THE    DANISH   SEA-KING.  155 

Our  eagle-wings  of  might  we  stretch  before  the 

gallant  wind, 
And  we  leave  the  tame  and  sluggish  earth  a  dim, 

mean  speck  behind  ; 
We  shoot  into  the  untracked  deep,  as  earth-freed 

spii'its  soar, 
Like  stars  of  fire  through  boundless  space,—  through 

realms  without  a  shore  ! 

Lords  of  this  wide-spread  wilderness  of  waters,  we 
bound  free. 

The  haughty  elements  alone  dispute  our  sovereign- 
ty; 

No  landmark  doth  our  freedom  let,  for  no  law  of 
man  can  mete 

The  sky  which  arches  o'er  our  head, — the  waves 
which  kiss  our  feet ! 

The  warrior  of  the  land  may  back  the  wild  horse, 
in  his  pride  ; 

But  a  fiercer  steed  we  dauntless  breast, — the  un- 
tamed ocean  tide ; 

And  a  nobler  tilt  our  bark  careers,  as  it  quells  the 
saucy  wave, 

"While  the  Herald  storm  peals  o'er  the  deep  the 
glories  of  the  brave. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  wind  Is  up, — it  bloweth  fresh 

and  free, 
And  every  cord,  instinct  with  life,  pipes  loud  its 

fearless  glee ; 
Big  swell   the   bosomed  sails  with  joy,  and   they 

madly  kiss  the  spray. 
As  proudly,  through  tl)e  foaming  surge,  the  Sea- 

King  bears  away  1 


156  THE   MERRY   GALLANT. 


THE  CAVALIER'S   SONG. 

A  STEED  !  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed, 

A  sword  of  metal  keene  ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartcs  is  drosse, 

All  else  oa  earth  is  meane. 
The  iieijjhyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde, 

The  rowlinge  of  the  drum, 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come ; 
And  O  !  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes 

Whenas  their  war  cryes  swell, 
May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright, 

And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte !  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine : 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  slirewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

Wlien  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand, — • 
Heart  whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  tiie  fayrest  of  the  land  ; 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye. 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die  ! 


THE  MERRY  GALLANT. 

The  Merry  Gallant  girds  his  sword. 
And  dons  his  helm  in  niiekle  glee ; 
He  leaves  behind  liis  lady-love 
For  tented  fields  and  deeds  which  prove 
Stout  hardiment  and  constancy. 


THE   knight's   SOXG.  157 

When  round  him  rinfrs  tlie  din  of  arms, — 

The  notes  of  high-born  chivahy, — 
He  thinks  not  of  his  bird  in  bower, 
And  scorns  to  own  Love's  tyrant  power 
Amid  the  combats  of  the  Free. 

Yet  in  the  midnijiht  watch,  I  trow. 
When  cresset  lights  all  feebly  burn, 

Will  hermit  Fancy  sometimes  roam 

With  eager  travel  back  to  home, 

Where  smiles  and  tears  await — return. 

"  Away  !  away  ! "  he  boldly  sings, 

"  Be  thrown  those  thoug-hts  which  cling  to  me 
That  mournful  look  and  glistenng  eye, — 
That  quivering  lip  and  broken  sigh; — 

Why  fill  each  shrine  of  memory  ? 

"  O  that  to-morrow's  dawn  would  rise 

To  light  me  on  my  path  of  glory. 
Where  I  may  pluck  from  niggard  fame 
Her  bravest  laurels, — and  the  name 

That  long  shall  live  in  minstrel  story  ! 

"  Then,  when  my  thirst  for  fame  is  dead, 
Soft  love  may  claim  his  wonted  due ; 
But  now,  when  levelled  lances,  gleam. 
And  chargers  snort,  and  banners  stream, 
To  lady's  love  a  long  adieu  !  " 


THE  KNIGHT'S  SONG. 

Endearing  !  endearing ! 

Why  so  endearing 
Are  those  dark  lustrous  eyes, 

Through  their  silk  fringes  pnering  ? 


158  THE   knight's   song. 

They  love  me  !  they  love  me  ! 

Deeply,  sincerely  ; 
And  more  tlian  auiiht  else  on  earth. 

1  love  them  dearly. 

Endearing !  endearing ! 

Why  so  endearing 
Glows  the  glad,  sunny  smile 

On  thy  soft  cheek  appearing  ? 
It  brightens  !  it  brightens  ! 

As  I  am  nearing  ; 
And  'tis  thus  that  thy  fond  smile 

Is  ever  endearing. 

Endcarinji !  endearing ! 

Why  so  endearing 
Is  that  lute-breathing  voice 

Which  my  rapt  soul  is  hearing? 
'Tis  sintiin";,  'tis  sinsinn; 

Thy  deep  love  for  me. 
And  my  faithful  heart  echoes 

Devotion  to  thee. 

Endearinjc !  endearinji ! 

Why  so  endearing 
At  each  Passage  of  Arms 

Is  the  herald's  bold  cheering? 
'Tis  then  thou  art  kneeling 

AV'^ith  pure  hands  to  Heaven, 
And  each  prayer  of  thy  heart 

For  my  good  lance  is  given. 

Endearino;  1  endearinji ! 

Why  so  endearing 
Ls  the  fillet  of  silk 

That  my  right  arm  is  wearing  ? 
Once  it  veiled  the  bright  bosom 

That  beats  but  for  me  ; 
Now  it  circles  the  arm  that 

Wins  glory  for  thee  ! 


THE   TROOPERS   DITTY.  159 


THE  TROOPER'S  DITTY. 

Boot,  boot  into  the  stirrup,  lads. 

And  hand  once  more  on  rein ; 
Up,  up  into  the  saddle,  lads. 

Afield  we  ride  again  ; 
One  cheer,  one  cheer  for  dame  or  dear, 

No  leisure  now  to  sigh, 
God  bless  tliem  all, — we  have  their  prayers, 

And  they  our  hearts, — "  Good  by  !  " 
OS",  off  we  ride,  in  reckless  pride, 

As  gallant  troopers  may. 
Who  have  old  scores  to  settle,  and 

Long  slashing  swords  to  pay. 

The  trumpet  calls, — '•  Trot  out,  trot  out," — 

AVe  cheer  the  stirring  sound  ; 
Swords  forth,  my  lads, — through  smoke  and  dust 

We  thunder  o'er  the  ground. 
Tramp,  tramp,  we  go  through  sulphury  clouds, 

That  blind  us  while  we  sing, — 
Woe  worth  the  knave  who  follows  not 

The  banner  of  the  King; 
But  luck  belall  each  trooper  tall, 

That  cleaves  to  saddle-tree. 
Whose  long  sword  carves  on  rebel  sconce 

The  rights  of  Majesty. 

Spur  on,  my  lads;  the  trumpet  sounds 

Its  last  and  stern  command, — 
"  A  charge  !  a  charge  ! " — an  ocean  burst 

Upon  a  stormy  strand. 
Ha  !  ha  !  how  thickly  on  our  casques 

Their  popguns  rattle  shot ; 
Spur  on,  my  lads,  we'll  give  it  thera 

As  sharply  as  we've  got. 


160  HE  IS  gone!  he  18  gone! 

Now  for  it : — now,  bend  to  the  work, — • 

Their  lines  begin  to  shake  ; 
Now,  througli  and  through  them, — bloody  lanes 

Our  flashing  sabres  make  1 

"  Cut  one, — cut  two, — first  point,"  and  then 

We'll  parry  as  we  may  ; 
On,  on  the  knaves,  and  give  them  steel 

In  bellyfuls  to-day. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Church  and  State, 

For  Country  and  for  Crown, 
We  slash  away,  and  riglit  and  left 

Hew  rogues  and  rebels  down. 
Another  cheer !  the  field  is  clear, 

The  day  is  all  our  own  ; 
Done  like  our  sires, — done  like  the  swords 

God  gives  to  guard  the  Throne ! 


HE  IS  GONE  !    HE  IS  GONE  1 

He  is  gone  !  he  is  gone  ! 

Like  the  leaf  from  the  tree, 
Or  the  down  that  is  blown 

By  the  wind  o'er  the  lea. 
He  is  fled,  the  light-hearted! 
Yet  a  tear  must  have  started 
To  his  eye,  when  he  parted 

From  love-stricken  me  ! 

He  is  fled  !  he  is  fled  ! 

Like  a  gallant  so  free, 
Plumed  cap  on  his  head, 

And  sharp  sword  b}'  liis  knee; 
While  his  gay  featliers  fluttered. 
Surely  something  he  muttered  ; 
lie  at  least  must  have  uttered 

A  farewell  to  me  ! 


THE   forester's   CAROL.  161 

He's  away  !  he's  away 

To  far  lands  o'er  the  sea, — 
And  long  is  the  day 

Ere  home  he  can  be  ; 
But  where'er  his  steed  prances, 
Amid  thronging  lances, 
Sure  he'll  think  of  the  glances 

That  love  stole  from  me  ! 

He  is  gone  !  he  is  gone  ! 

Like  the  leaf  from  the  tree ; 
But  his  heart  is  of  stone 

If  it  ne'er  dream  of  me  ; 
For  I  dream  of  him  ever ; 
His  buff-coat  and  beaver. 
And  long  sword,  O,  never 

Are  absent  from  me  ! 


THE  FORESTER'S  CAROL. 

Lusty  Hearts !  to  the  wood,  to  the  merry  green- 
wood. 
While  the  dew  with  strung  pearls  loads  each  blade, 
And  the  first  blush  of  dawn  brightly  streams  o'er 
the  lawn. 
Like  the  smile  of  a  rosy-cheeked  maid. 

Our  horns  with  wild  music  ring  glad  through  each 
shaw, 
And  our  broad  arrows  rattle  amain ; 
For  the  stout  bows  we  draw  to  the  greenwoods 
give  law, 
And  the  Might  is  the  Right  once  again  1 

]\Iark  yon  herds,  as  they  brattle  and  brush  down 
the  glade, — 
Pick  the  fat,  let  the  lean  rascals  go ; 
11 


162  MAY   MORN   SONG. 

Under  favor  'tis  moet  that  wc  tall  men  should  eat,— 
Nock  a  shaft  and  strike  down  that  proud  doe ! 

"Well  delivered,  parftiy  !  convulsive  she  leaps, — 
One  bound  more, — then  she  drops  on  her  side; 

Our  steel  liath  bit  smart  the  life-strings  of  her  heart, 
And  cold  now  lies  the  green  forest's  pride. 

Heave  her  up,  and  away ! — should  any  base  churl 
Dare  to  ask  why  we  range  in  this  wood. 

There's  a  keen  arrow  yare  in  each  broad  belt  to 
spare. 
That  will  answer  the  knave  in  his  blood ! 

Then  forward,  my  Hearts !  like  the  bold,  reckless 
bi'eeze, 

Our  life  shall  whirl  on  in  mad  glee ; 
Tlie  long  bows  we  bend,  to  the  world's  latter  end, 

Shall  be  borne  by  the  hands  of  the  Free  1 


MAY  MORN   SONG. 

The  grass  is  wet  with  shining  dews, 

Tlieir  silver  bells  hang  on  each  tree, 
Wiiile  opening  flower  and  bursting  bud 

Breatlie  incense  forth  unceasingly; 
The  mavis  pipes  in  greenwood  shaw. 

The  throstle  glads  the  s[)reading  thorn, 
And  cheerily  the  blithesome  lark 
Salutes  the  rosy  face  of  morn. 
'Tis  early  prime ; 

And  hark  !  hark  !  hark  ! 
His  merry  chime 
Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup  !  chirrup  !  he  heralds  in 
The  jolly  sun  with  matin  hymn. 


THE   BLOOM   HATH   FLED   THY   CHEEK.     1G3 

Come,  come,  my  love  !  anrl  May-dews  shake 

In  pailfuls  f'roiii  each  drooping  bough; 
They'll  give  fresh  lustre  to  the  bloom, 

That  breaks  upon  thy  joung  cheek  now. 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  o'er  waste  and  wood, 

Aurora's  smiles  are  streaming  free  ; 
With  earth  it  seems  brave  holiday, 
In  heaven  it  looks  high  jubilee. 
And  it  is  right, 

For  mark,  love,  mark  ! 
How  bathed  in  light 
Cliirru[)s  the  lark: 
Chirrup  !  chirrup  !  he  upward  flies, 
Like  holy  thoughts  to  cloudless  skies. 

They  lack  .all  heart,  who  cannot  feel 

The  voice  of  heaven  within  them  thrill, 
In  summer  morn,  when,  mounting  high, 

This  merry  minstrel  sings  his  fill. 
Now  let  us  seek  yon  bosky  dell, 

Where  brightest  wild-flowers  choose  to  be, 
And  where  its  clear  stream  murmurs  on, 
Meet  type  of  our  love's  purity ; 
No  witness  there, 

And  o'er  us,  hark  ! 
High  in  the  air 
Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup  !  chirrup  !  away  soars  he. 
Bearing  to  heaven  my  vows  to  thee ! 


THE  BLOOM  HATH  FLED  THY  CHEEK, 
]\IARY. 

The  bloom  hath  fled  thy  check,  Mary, 

As  spring's  ralh  blossoms  die, 
And  sadness  hath  o'ershadowed  now 

Thy  once  bright  eye  ; 


164     TUE    BLOOM    HArn    FLED    THY   CHEEK. 

But  look,  on  me  the  prints  of  grief 
Still  deeper  lie. 

Farewell ! 

Thy  lips  are  pale  and  mute,  Mary, 

Thy  step  is  sad  and  slow, 
The  morn  of  jjladness  hath  gone  by 

Thou  erst  did  know ; 
I,  too,  am  changed  like  thee,  and  weep 

For  very  woe. 

Farewell ! 

It  seems  as  'twere  but  yesterday 
We  were  the  happiest  twain, 

When  murmured  sighs  and  joyous  tears, 
Dropping  like  rain, 

Discoursed  my  love,  and  told  how  loved 
I  was  again. 

Farewell. 

'Twas  not  in  cold  and  measured  phrase 

We  gave  our  passion  name ; 
Scorning  such  tedious  eloquence. 

Our  hearts'  fond  flame 
And  long-imprisoned  feelings  fast 

In  deep  sobs  came. 
Farewell ! 

Would  that  our  love  had  been  the  love 
That  merest  worldlings  know, 

When  passion's  draught  to  our  doomed  lips 
Turns  utter  woe. 

And  our  poor  dream  of  happiness 
Vanishes  so ! 

Farewell ! 

But  in  the  wreck  of  all  our  hopes, 
There's  yet  some  touch  of  bliss, 

Since  fate  robs  not  our  wretchedness 
Of  this  last  kiss  : 


IX   THE   QUIET   AND   SOLEMN  NIGUT.       1C5 

Despair,  and  love,  and  madness,  meet 
In  this,  in  this. 

Farewell ! 


IN    THE   QUIET   AND   SOLEMN  NIGHT. 

Is  the  quiet  and  solemn  niglit, 
AVhen  the  moon  is  silvery  bright, 
Then  the  screech-owl's  eerie  cry 
Mocks  the  beauties  of  the  sky : 

Tu  whit,  tu  whoo, 

Its  wild  halloo 
Doth  read  a  drowsy  homily. 

From  yon  old  castle's  chimneys  tall, 
The  bat  on  leathern  sail  doth  fall 
In  wanton-wise  to  skim  the  earth, 
And  flout  the  mouse  that  gave  it  birth. 

Tu  whit,  tu  whoo, 

That  wild  halloo 
Hath  marred  the  little  monster's  mirth. 

Fond  lovers  seek  the  dewy  vale. 
That  swimmeth  in  the  moonsliine  pale, 
But  maids  !  beware,  when  in  your  ear 
The  screech-owl  screams  so  loud  and  t  lear 

Tu  whit,  tu  whoo. 

Its  wild  halloo 
Doth  speak  of  danger  lurking  near 

It  bids  beware  of  murmured  sigh, 
Of  air-spun  oath  and  wistful  eye ; 
Of  star  that  winks  to  conscious  flower 
Through  the  roof  of  leaf-clad  bower : 

Tu  whit,  tu  whoo. 

That  wild  halloo 
Bids  startled  virtue  own  its  power ! 


166  THE   VOICE   OF   LOVE. 


THE   VOICE   OF   LOVE. 

When  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  creep, 
And  twinkling  stars  pale  vigils  keep  ; 
When  flower-cups  all  with  dewdrops  gleam, 
And  moonshine  lloweth  like  a  stream; 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  hearts  which  love  no  longer  dream, — 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power  1 

When  shamefaced  moonbeams  kiss  the  lake, 
And  amorous  leaves  sweet  music  wake; 
When  slumber  steals  o'er  every  eye, 
And  Dian's  self  shines  drowsily  ; 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  hearts  wliich  love  with  rapture  sigh, — 

Then  is  the  Iiour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power  1 

When  surly  mastiffs  stint  their  howl, 
And  swathed  in  moonshine  nods  the  owl ; 
When  cottage-hearths  are  glimmering  low, 
And  warder  cocks  Ibi'set  to  crow ; 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  hearts  fL'<!l  passion's  overflow, — ■ 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power  1 

When  stilly  night  seems  earth's  vast  grave, 
Nor  murmur  comes  from  wood  or  wave 
When  land  and  sea,  in  wedlock  bound 
By  silence,  sleep  in  bliss  prolbund  ; 

'i'hen  is  tiie  hour 
That  hearts  like  living  well-springs  sound, — ■ 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  epell  of  power  I 


away!  away!  o,  do  not  say.        167 


AWAY!  AWAY!  O,  DO  NOT  SAY. 

Away  !  away  !   O,  do  not  say 

He  can  prove  false  to  me  : 
Let  me  believe  but  this  brief  day 

In  his  fidelity  ;         • 
Tell  me,  that  rivers  bar-kward  flow, 
That  unsunned  snows  like  firebrands  glow, 

I  may  believe  that  lay  ; 
But  never  can  believe  that  he 

Is  false,  and  fled  away. 

Ill-acted  part !  ill-acted  part ! 

I  knew  his  noble  mind, — 
He  could  not  break  a  trusting  heart, 

Nor  leave  his  love  behind ; 
Tell  me  yon  sun  will  cease  to  rise, 
Or  stars  at  night  to  gem  the  skies, 

I  may  believe  such  lay  ; 
But  never  can  believe  that  he 

Is  false,  and  fled  away. 

Can  it  be  so  ?     O,  surely  no  I 

Must  I  perforce  believe 
That  he  I  loved  and  trusted  so, 

Vowed  only  to  deceive  ? 
Heap  coals  of  fire  on  this  lone  head. 
Or  in  pure  pity  strike  me  dead, — • 

'Twere  kindness,  on  the  day 
That  tells  me  one  I  loved  so  well 

Is  false, — is  fled  away  I 


168  THE    SERENADE. 


0  AGONY!   KEEN  AGONY. 

O  AGOXY  !  keen  agony, 

For  trusting  heart  to  find 

That  vows  believed  were  vows  conceived 

As  light  as  summer  wind. 

O  agony !  fierce  agony, 

For  lovin<£  heart  to  brook, 

In  one  brief  hour,  the  withermg  power 

Of  uninipassioued  look. 

O  agony  !  deep  agony, 
For  heart  that's  proud  and  high, 
To  learn  of  fate  how  desolate 
It  may  be  ere  it  die. 

O  agony !  sharp  agony, 

To  find  how  loatli  to  part 

With  the  fickleness  and  faithlessness 

That  break  a  trusting  heart  I 


THE  SERENADE. 

Wakp:,  lady,  wake ! 

Dear  heart,  awake 

From  slumber's  light  • 
For  'neatli  thy  bower,  at  this  still  hour, 

In  liarnuss  briglit, 
Lingers  thine  own  true  paramour, 

And  chosen  knight ! 

Wake,  lady,  walce ! 


J 


THE   SERENADE.  IGO 

Wake,  lady,  wake  ! 

For  thy  loved  sake, 

Each  trenibliiig  star 
Smiles  from  on  hii2;h  with  its  clear  eye, 

Wliilc  nobler  far 
Yon  silvery  shield  lights  earth  and  sky ; 

How  good  they  are  ! 

Wake,  lady,  wake ! 

Rise,  lady,  rise ! 

Not  star-filled  skies 

I  worship  now ; 
A  fairer  shrine  I  trust  is  mine 

For  loyal  vow  : 
O  that  the  living  stars  would  shine 

That  light  thy  brow  ! 

Rise,  lady,  rise ! 

Rise,  lady,  rise. 

Ere  war's  rude  cries 

Fright  land  and  sea  ! 
To-morrow's  light  sees  mail-sheathed  knight, 

Even  hapless  me, 
C*ceering  through  the  bloody  fight 

Afar  from  thee  ! 

Rise,  lady,  rise ! 

Mute,  lady,  mute  V 

I  have  no  lute 

Nor  rebeck  small 
To  soi^t'ie  thine  ear  with  lay  sincere. 

Or  madrigal ; 
V^  th  *!  ^ilm  on  Lead  and  hand  on  spear, 

v)n  theo  I  call  ! 

Mute,  lady,  mute  ! 

^lute,  Udy,  mute 
'In  'o  a'&  I'^nd  suit  ? 
11'  1  o':  complain, 


170  COULD   LOVE   IMPART. 

Since  underneath  thy  balmy  breath 

I  may  remain 
One  brief  hour  more  ere  I  seek  death 

On  battle-plain ! 

Mute,  lady,  mute  ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep ! 

While  watch  I  keep 

Till  dawn  of  day  : 
But  o'er  the  wold  now  morning  cold 

Shines  icy  gray ; 
While  the  plain  gleams  with  steel  and  gold, 

And  chargers  neish  ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep ! 

Nor  wake  to  weep 

For  heart-struck  me : 
These  trumpets  knell  my  last  farewell 

To  love  and  tluic  ! 
When  next  they  sound,  'twill  be  to  tell 

I  died  for  thee  ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep ! 


COULD  LOVE  BIPART. 

Could  love  impart. 

By  nicest  art, 
To  speechless  rocks  a  tongue,— 

Their  theme  would  be, 

Beloved,  of  thee, — 
Thy  beauty,  all  their  song. 

And,  clerklikc,  then, 
With  sweet  amen. 


COULD   LOVE   IMPART.  1  71 

Would  echo  from  each  hollow 

Reply  all  day  ; 

While  gentle  fay, 
With  merry  whoop,  would  follow. 

Had  roses  sense, 

On  no  pretence 
Would  they  their  buds  unroll ; 

For,  could  they  speak, 

'Twas  from  thy  cheek 
Their  daintiest  blush  they  stole. 

Had  lilies  eyes, 

With  glad  surprise 
They'd  own  themselves  outdone, 

When  thy  pure  brow 

And  neck  of  snow 
Gleamed  in  the  morning  sun. 

Could  shining  brooks, 

B\'  amorous  looks. 
Be  taught  a  voice  so  rare, 

Then  every  sound. 

That  murmured  round. 
Would  whisper,  "  Thou  art  fair  ! 


n 


Could  winds  be  fraught 

With  pensive  thought 
At  midnight's  solemn  hour. 

Then  evesy  wood. 

In  gleeful  mood. 
Would  own  thy  beauty's  power  1 

And  could  the  sky 

Behold  thine  eye, 
So  filled  with  love  and  light, 

In  jealous  haste 

Thou  soon  wert  placed 
To  star  the  cope  of  Night  I 


l'^2  THE   PAUTIXO. 


THE   PARTING. 

O,  IS  it  tlius  we  part, 
And  thus  we  say  farewell, 
As  if  in  neither  heart 
Afleotion  e'er  did  dwell  ? 
And  is  it  thus  we  sunder, 
Without  a  siLdi  or  tear, 
As  if  it  were  a  wonder 
We  e'er  held  other  dear? 

We  part  upon  tiie  spot, 
With  cold  and  clouded  brow, 
Where  first  it  was  our  lot 
To  breathe  love's  fondest  vow  I 
The  vow  both  then  did  tender 
Within  this  hallowed  shade, — 
That  vow  we  now  surrender, 
Heart-bankrupts  both  are  made ! 

Thy  hand  is  cold  as  mine, 
As  lustreless  thine  eye  ; 
Thy  bosom  pives  no  sifm 
That  it  could  ever  sigh  ! 
Well,  well !  adieu's  soon  spoken, 
'Tis  but  a  parting  phrase, 
Yet  said,  I  fear,  heart-broken 
We'll  live  our  after  days ! 

Thine  eye  no  tear  will  shed, 
^line  is  as  proudly  dry; 
But  many  an  aching  head 
Is  ours  before  we  die  ! 
From  pride  we  both  can  borrow, — 
To  part  we  both  may  dare, — 
IJut  tlie  heart-ljreak  of  to-morrow, 
Nor  you  nor  I  can  bear  I 


THE   MIDNIGHT   WIND.  173 


LOVE'S  DIET. 

Tell  me,  fair  maid,  tell  me  truly, 
How  should  infant  love  be  fed  ; 
If  with  dewdrops,  shed  so  newly 

On  the  bright  green  clover-blade  ; 
Or  with  roses  plucked  in  July, 
And  with  honey  liquored  ? 
O,  no  !  O,  no  ! 
Let  roses  blow. 
And  dew-stars  to  green  blade  cling ; 
Other  fare, 
More  light  and  rare, 
Befits  that  gentlest  nursling. 

Feed  him  with  the  sigh  that  rushes 

'Twixt  sweet  lips,  whose  muteness  speaks, 
With  the  elocpience  that  flushes 

All  a  heart's  wealth  o'er  soft  cheeks  ; 
Feed  him  with  a  world  of  blushes. 
And  the  glance  that  shuns,  yet  seeks  • 
For  'tis  with  food, 
So  light  and  good, 
That  the  Spirit  child  is  fed ; 
And  with  the  tear 
Of  joyous  fear 
That  the  small  Elf's  liquored. 


THE  mDNIGHT  WIND. 

Mournfully  !  O,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh. 

Like  some  sweet,  plaintive  melody 
Of  ages  long  gone  by  ! 


174  THE    WAITHMAN's   -WAIL, 

Tt  speaks  a  tale  of  other  years, — 
Of  liopes  tliat  bloomed  to  die, — 

Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears, 
And  loves  that  moulderino-  lie  ! 

Mournfully !  O,  mournfully, 

This  midnight  wind  doth  moan  ! 
It  stirs  some  ehord  of  memory 

In  each  dull,  heavy  tone  : 
The  voices  of  the  much-loved  dead 

Seem  floatinij  thereupon, — 
All,  all  my  fond  heart  cherished 

Ere  death  hath  made  it  lone. 

Mournfully !  O,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  swell, 
AVith  its  quaint,  pensive  minstrelsy, 

Hope's  passionate  farewell 
To  the  dreamy  joys  of  early  years, 

Ere  yet  grief's  canker  fell 
On  the  heart's  bloom,— ay  !  well  may  teara 

Start  at  that  parting  knell ! 


THE  WAITHMAN'S  WAIL* 

The  waithrnan  goode  of  Silverwoode, 
That  bowman  stout  and  hende. 

In  donjon  ploom  abvdes  hia  doome; 
God  dele  him  gentil  ende. 

It  breakes  trew  herte  to  see  him  sterte, 
Whenas  the  small  birdes  sing; 

And  then  to  hear  his  sighynges  drere 
WTienaa  his  fetters  ryng. 


Walthman, — hunter. 


THE   WAITHMAN'S    WAIL.  175 

Of  bowe  and  shafte  he  bin  bereft, 

And  eke  of  bugil  home ; 
A  ftoodl.ve  wighte,  by  craftie  slyghte, 

Alake !  is  overborne. — Old  Ballad. 

My  heart  is  sick  !  my  heart  is  sick  ! 

And  sad  as  heart  can  be ; 
It  pineth  i'or  the  forest  brook, 

And  for  the  forest  tree  ; 
It  pinefh  for  all  gladsome  things 

That  haunt  the  woodlands  free. 

0  Silverwood,  sweet  Silverwood, 
Thv  leaves  be  larjje  and  long : 

And  there,  God  wot,  in  summer  eve, 

To  list  the  small  bird's  song, 
Were  med'cine  to  the  heart  that  breaks, 

Like  mine,  in  prison  strong. 

The  sun,  in  idle  wantonness, 

Shines  in  this  dungeon  cold, 
But  his  bright  glance  through  Silverwood 

I  never  shall  behold  ! 

1  ne'er  shall  see  each  broad  leaf  gleam 

Like  banner-flag  of  gold. 

It  pains  me,  this  o'ermastering  light, 

Fast  flooding  from  the  sky. 
That  streams  through  these  black  prison-bars 

In  sheerest  mockery. 
Recalling  thoughts,  by  green  woods  bred, 

To  mad  me  ere  I  die. 

Dear  western  wind,  now  blowing  soft 

Upon  my  faded  cheek, 
Thy  angel  whisperings  seem  even  now 

Of  Silverwood  to  speak  ; 
Of  streams  and  bovvers  that  make  man's  heart 

As  verv  woman's  weak. 


17e  THE   ■WAITHMAX'S   WAIL. 

Soft  western  wind,  with  music  fraught 

Of  all  to  heart  ino?t  dear  ; 
Of  birds  that  sing  in  greenest  glade, 

Of  streams  that  run  so  clear ; 
Why  pour  thy  sweetness  o'er  the  heart 

That  wastes  in  dungeon  drear  ? 

The  sunshine's  for  the  jocund  heart, 

The  breeze  is  for  the  free  ; 
They  be  for  those  who  bend  stout  bow 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 
Sun  ne'er  should  shine,  breeze  never  blow, 

For  fettered  slave  like  me. 

I  hear  the  hawk's  scream  in  the  wood. 

The  bayings  of  gaunt  hound, 
The  sharp  sough  of  the  feathered  shaft, 

The  bugle's  thrilling  sound  ; 
I  hear  them ;  and,  O  God,  these  limbs 

With  Spanish  irons  bound  1 

Strike  these  foul  fetters  from  my  wrist, 
These  shackles  from  my  knee. 

Set  this  foot  'gainst  an  earthfast  stone. 
This  beick  'gainst  broad  oak-tree  ; 

Give  but  one  span  of  earth  for  fight. 
And  I  once  more  am  free  1 

A  single  hand,  a  single  brand. 

Against  uncounted  foes, 
A  heart  that's  withered  like  a  leaf, 

In  brooding  o'er  its  woes, 
Are  surely  not  such  deadly  odds 

For  stout  men  to  oppose. 

But  no ;  bound  here  'midst  rotting  straw, 

Within  this  noisome  cell, 
They  joy  to  see  a  proud  heart  break. 

And  ring  its  own  sad  knell ; 


THE  troubadour's  LAMENT.      177 

They  joy  to  hear  me,  Silverwood, 
Bid  thee  and  hfe  farewell. 

So  let  it  be  ;  sweet  Silverwood, 

On  daylight's  latest  beam, 
]\Iy  spirit  seeks  again  thy  glades. 

Revisits  flower  and  stream  ; 
And  fleets  through  thee,  unchanged  in  love, 

In  this  my  dying  dream. 


THE   TROUBADOUR'S   LAMENT. 

It  was  a  gallant  troubadour, 

A  child  of  sword  and  song. 
That  loved  a  gentle  paramour, 
And  loved  her  leal  and  long; 
He  wooed  her  as  a  knight  should  woo. 

And,  laying  lance  in  rest. 
In  listed  fields  her  colors  flew 
O'er  many  a  haughty  crest. 
He  loved  her  as  a  bard  should  do, 

And,  taking  harp  in  hand. 
In  sweetest  lays  that  lady's  praise 
He  poured  o'er  many  a  land : 
But  all  in  vain. 
His  noblest  strain 
Awoke  no  kind  return  ; 
That  lady  proud 
Smiled  on  the  crowd. 
But  his  true  love  did  spurn. 

It  was  a  tristful  troubadour, 

Heart-bi'oken  by  disdain. 
That  then  to  France  and  belle  araour 

Bequeathed  this  mournful  strain, 
12 


178  THE    troubadour's    LAMENT. 

As  riding  on  the  yellow  sand 
With  many  a  knightly  fere, 
He  smote  his  harp  with  feeblest  hand, 

To  sing  with  feebler  cheer  : 
Adieu,  proud  love  !  adieu,  fair  land  I 

Where  heathen  banners  float. 
This  broken  heart  can  act  its  part, 
Can  die,  and  be  forgot. 
Alas !  too  late ; 
It  was  its  fate 
To  learn,  ^vith  saddest  pain, 
It  loved  one 
Who  scorned  to  own 
Her  heart  could  love  again. 

Fair  France,  farewell !  my  latest  breath 

Shall  still  be  spent  for  thee, 
While  meeting  strife,  I  court  my  death 

In  distant  Galilee. 
My  soul  is  bound  up  with  the  glaive 

That  iilittei-s  at  mv  thigh, 
And  fixed  upon  the  banner  brave 

Now  flashinji  to  the  skv. 
A  last  adieu  I  well  may  waive 

To  her  I  loved  so  well; 
She  does  not  care  what  doom  I  bear, 
Yet,  heartless  maid,  farewell ! 
No  bridal  sheet 
■  For  me  is  meet ; 
I  seek  the  soldier's  bier, 
Who,  for  his  God, 
Sleeps  on  the  sod, 
Unstained  by  woman's  tear. 


WHEN   I   AM    SLEEPING.  179 


WHEN    I    BENEATH     THE    COLD,    RED 
EARTH   AM   SLEEPING. 

Whex  I  beneath  the  cold,  red  earth  am  sleeping, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 
"Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  Aveeping 

That  I'm  no  more  ? 
Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory  keeping 

Of  heretofoi-e  ? 

When   the  great   winds,  through    leafless  forests 
rushing. 
Like  full  hearts  break, 
When  the  swollen  streams,   o'er  crag  and  gully 
gushing, 
Sad  music  make ; 
Will  there  be  one  whose  heart  despair  is  crushing 
Mourn  for  my  sake  ? 

When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shining 

With  purest  ray. 
And  the   small  flowers,  their  buds  and   blossona 
twining, 

Burst  through  that  clay, — 
Will  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot  repining 

Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 

When  the  night  shadows,  with  the  ample  sweepin*; 

Of  her  dark  pall, 
The  world  and  all  its  manifold  creation  sleeping, 

The  great  and  small, — 
Will  there  be  one,  even  at  that  dread  hour,  weeping 

For  me, — for  all  ? 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye  of  glory, 
On  that  low  mound ; 


180  SPIRITS  OF  light!  spirits  of  shade! 

And  wintry  storms  have  with  their  ruins  hoary 

Its  loneness  crowned ; 
Will  there  be  then  one  versed  in  misery's  story 

Pacing  it  round  ? 

It  may  be  so, — but  this  is  selfish  sorrow 

To  ask  such  meed, — 
A  weakness  and  a  wickedness  to  borrow, 

From  hearts  that  bleed. 
The  wailings  of  to-day,  for  what  to-morrow 

Shall  never  need. 

Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow  dwelling, 

Thou  gentle  heart ; 
And  though  thy  bosom  should  with  giief  be  swelling, 

Let  no  tear  start ; 
It  were  in  vain, — for  Time  hath  long  been  knelling,— 

Sad  one,  depart ! 


SPIRITS  OF  LIGHT!   SPIRITS  OF  SHADE! 

Spirits  of  Light !  Spirits  of  Shade ! 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  your  love-crazed  maid,- 

Who  singeth  all  niglit  so  merrily. 

Under  the  cope  of  the  huge  elm-tree. 

The  snow  may  fall,  and  the  hitter  wind  blow, 

But  still  with  love  must  her  heart  overflow. 

The  great  elm-tree  is  leafy  and  high, 

And  its  topmost  branch  wanders  far  up  in  the  sky; 

It  is  clothed  with  leaves  from  top  to  toe ; 

For  it  loveth  to  hear  the  wild  winds  blow, — 

The  winds  that  travel  so  fast  and  free. 

Over  the  land,  and  over  the  sea. 

Singing  of  marvels  continuously. 

The  moon  on  these  leaves  is  shining  ever. 

And  they  dance  like  the  waves  of  a  gleaming  river. 


SPIRITS  OF  LIGHT  !   SPIRITS  OF  SHADE  I    181 

But  oft  In  the  night, 
When  her  smile  shines  bright, 
With  the  cold,  cold  dew  they  shiver. 
O,  woe  is  me,  for  the  sufiiering  tree. 
And  the  little  ijreen  leaves  that  shiver  and  dream 
In  the  icy  moonbeam! 
O,  woe  is  me  ! 

I  would  I  were  clad  with  leaves  so  green, 

And  grew  like  this  elm,  a  fair  forest  queen  ; 

Could  shoot  up  ten  fingers  like  branches  tall, 

Till  the  cold,  cold  dews  would  on  me  fall ; 

For  to  shiver  is  sweet  wl^n  winds  blow  keen, 

Or  hoarfrost  powders  the  dreary  scene. 

And,  O,  I  would  like  that  my  flesh  could  creep 

AVith  cold,  as  it  was  wont  to  do; 

And  that  my  heart  like  a  flower  went  to  sleep, 

When  Winter  his  icy  trumpet  blew. 

And  shook  o'er  the  wolds  and  moorland  fells 

His  crisping  beard  of  bright  icicles, 

While  his  breath,  as  it  swept  adown  the  strath. 

Smote  with  death  the  burn  as  it  brawled  on  its  path, 

Stilled  its  tongue,  and  laid  it  forth 

In  a  lily-white  smock  from  the  freezing  north. 

But  woe,  deep  woe, 

It  is  not  so. 

Spirits  of  Light!  Spirits  of  Shade  I 

Hearken  once  more  to  your  love-stricken  meui, 

For,  O,  she  is  sad  as  sad  may  be, 

Pining  all  night  underneath  this  tree, 

Yet  lacking  thy  goodly  company. 

She  is  left  self-alone. 

While  the  old  forests  groan, 

As  they  hear,  down  rushing  from  the  skies, 

The  embattled  squadrons  of  the  air. 

Pealing  o'er  ridgy  hills  their  cries 

Of  battle,  and  of  fierce  despair. 

Through  sunless  valleys,  deep  and  drear, 


182  spiKiTS  OF  light!  spirits  of  shade  I 

Hark,  to  their  trumpets'  brassy  blare, 
Tlie  tramp  of  steed,  and  crash  of  spear! 
Nearer  yet  the  strife  sweeps  on, 
And  I  am  left  thus  self-alone. 
With  never  a  guardian  spirit  near, 
To  couch  for  me  a  generous  lance. 
When  the  Storm-fiends  madly  prance 
On  their  steeds  of  cloud  and  tlame, 
To  work  a  gentle  maiden  shame, 

O,  misery  ! 
I  die ;  and  yet  I  scorn  to  blame 

Inconstancy. 
All  in  this  old  wood. 
They  may  shed  my  blood. 
But  false  to  my  true  love 

I  never  can  be. 

Peace,  breaking  heart !  it  is  not  so, 

For  sweetly  I  hear  your  voices  How,— 

All  your  sad,  soft  voices  How, 

Like  the  murmurs  of  the  ocean, 

Kissed  by  Zephyrs  into  motion; 

And  when  sliells  have  found  a  tongue 

To  sing,  as  tliey  were  wont  to  sing. 

When  this  noble  world  was  young, 

And  the  sea  formed  love's  briirht  rinct, 

And  hearts  Ibund  hearts  in  everything. 

Now  tiie  trees  find  apt  replying 

To  your  music,  with  a  sigliing 

Tliat  doth  witch  the  owl  to  sleep; 

And,  waving  their  great  arms  to  and  fro, 

They  feel  }e  walk,  and  their  heads  they  bow 

In  adoration  deep. 

And  I  with  very  joy  could  now 

Like  weakest  Infant  weep, 

That  hath  its  hiunor,  and  doth  go 

AVith  joy-wrung  tears  to  sleep. 

And  now  all  the  leaves  that  arc  sere  and  dry 

Noiselessly  fall,  like  stars  from  the  sky ; 


SPIRITS  OF  light!  spiniTs  OF  shade!   103 

They  are  showering  down  on  either  hand, 

A  brown,  brown  burden  npon  the  land. 

And  thus  it  will  be  with  the  love-stricken  maid. 

That  loveth  the  Spirits  of  Light  and  Shade, 

And  whose  thoughts  commune  with  the  spirits  that 

write 
The  blue  book  of  heaven  with  words  of  light. 
And  who  bend  down  in  love  for  her, 

From  their  stately  domes  on  high, 
To  teach  her  ench  bright  character 

That  glearaeth  in  her  eye, 
When  tlie  solemn  night  unrolls 
The  vast  map  of  the  world  of  souls. 
(),  ecstasy !  rapt  ecstasy  ! 
For  a  poor  maiden  of  earth  like  me  ; 

To  have  and  hold 
The  spirits  who  shine  like  molten  gold, 
Eternally. 

Beautiful  Spirits  !  flee  me  not; 

For  this  is  the  hour,  and  this  is  the  spot, 

Where  we  were  wont  of  old  to  spell 

The  language  of  the  star-filled  sky; 

And  walk  through  heaven's  own  citadel. 

With  stately  step  and  upcast  eye. 

And  brows  on  which  were  deeply  wrought 

The  fadeless  prints  of  glorious  thought. 

Ye  melt  fast  away  in  the  dewy  chill 

O'  til'  moonbeam,  but  yield  to  a  maiden's  will ; 

Take,  ere  ye  vanish,  this  guerdon  fair, 

A  long  lo'.:k  of  her  sun-bright  hair; 

It  was  shorn  from  temphis  that  throbbed  with  pain, 

As  the  fearful  thought  wandered  through  the  brain, 

That  ne\er  again,  as  in  days  of  yore. 

It  might  be  her  hap  to  gather  lore 

From  the  dropping  richness  of  licpild  tones, 

That  fall  from  the  lips  of  spiritual  ones. 

Scorn  not  my  gift, — O,  it  is  fair. 

As,  streaming,  it  follows  your  course  high  in  air  ' 


184     SPIRITS  OF  light!   SPIRITS  OF  SHADeI 

And  here  is  a  brave  and  flannting  thing : — 
A  jolly  green  garland,  braided  well 
With  roses  wild,  and  foxglove  liell, — 
With  sage,  and  rue,  and  eglantine,— 
With  ivy-leaf  and  holly  green. 
Three  times  it  was  dipped  in  a  faery  spring, 
And  three  times  spread  forth  in  a  faery  ring, 
"When  the  dews  fell  tliick  and  the  moon  was  full; 
And  three  times  it  clipped  a  dead  man's  skull. 
And  three  times  it  lay  j)illowed  under  this  cheek, 
And  lips  that  would,  but  eould  not  speak, 
Where  its  bloom  was  preserved,  by  tears  freshly 

shed, 
From  a  bursting  heart's  fond  fountain-head. 
Take  these  gifts,  then,  ere  ye  go. 
Or  my  heart  will  break  with  its  weight  of  woe, 

O,  misery  ! 
To  love,  and  yet  to  be  slighted  so. 
Sad  misery. 

Spirits  of  Light !  Spirits  of  Shade  ! 

Onee  more  thus  prays  your  love-stricken  maid; 

Dig  out,  and  spread  in  the  white  moonshine 

A  goodly  couch  for  these  limbs  of  mine ; 

Fast  by  the  roots  of  this  stately  tree, 

And  three  fathoms  deep,  that  couch  must  be. 

And  lightly  strew  o'er  her  the  withered  leaf; 

Meet  shroud  for  maitlen  mild  'twill  prove ; 

And  as  it  falls  it  will  lull  her  jrrief, 

With  gentlest  rustlings,  breathing  love. 

Then  choose  a  turf  that  is  wondrous  light, 

And  lap  it  softly  o'er  this  breast; 

And  charge  the  dew-drops,  large  and  bright. 

On  its  green  grass  forever  to  rest. 

So  that,  like  a  queen,  clad  in  gems,  she  may  he, 

Right  holily. 
With  hands  crossed  in  prayer,  gazing  up  to  the  sky, 

Tranquilly, 

Eternally. 


THE   MIDNIGHT   LAMP.  185 


THE   CRUSADER'S   FAREWELL. 

The  banners  rustle  in  the  breeze, 

The  anjrry  trunipcts  swell ; 
They  call  m'e,  lady,  from  thy  arms, 

They  bid  mc  sigh  farewell ! 

They  call  nie  to  a  heathen  land. 

To  quell  a  heathen  foe  ; 
To  leave  love's  blandishments,  and  court 

Rude  dangers,  strife,  and  woe. 

Yet  deem  not,  lady,  though  afar 

It  be  my  hap  to  roam, 
That  this  right  loyal  heart  can  stray 

From  love,  from  thee,  and  home. 

No !  in  the  tumult  of  the  fight, 

'Midst  Salem's  chivalrie, 
The  thought  that  arms  this  hand  with  death 

Shall  be  the  thought  of  thee. 


THE   MIDNIGHT  LAMP. 

Tmod  pale  and  sickly  lamp, 

Now  glimmering  like  the  glow-worm  of  the  swamp, 

Shine  on,  I  pray  thee,  for  another  hour. 

And  shed  thy  wan  and  feeble  lustre  o'er 

This  precious  volume  of  forgotten  lore 

My  eyes  devour. 

Shine  on,  I  pray  thee,  but  some  little  while ; 

Soon  will  the  morning's  ruddy  smile 


186  COME   DOWX,   YE   SPIRITS. 

Peep   through   the   casement,  like   a    well-known 

And  give  thee  needful  i-est. 

Even  now  the  gray  owl  seeks  his  nest ; 

And  in  the  farm-yards  lusty  cocks  begin 

To  flap  their  wings,  and,  with  a  rousing  din, 

Cheer  on  the  lagging  morn. 

Right  soon  the  careful  churle  will  go 

To  view  his  ripening  corn  ; 

A.nd  up,  and  up,  in  a  merry  row, 

V  thousand  many-voiced  birds  will  spring, 

!L.nd  in  one  general  chorus  sing 

f  heir  matins  to  the  skies. 

Then  live  some  little  while,  poor  sickening  light, 

Vud  glad  my  aching  eyes  ; 
'  Thou  wilt  not  die  until  the  morrow  bright 
Has  si<ien  thy  exequies. 
Thou  \yii*,  not  quit  me  like  a  thankless  one, 
Wiio,  whcA  grief  closes  with  the  fainting  heart, 
Doth  shape  his  leave. 

I  pray  thee  tAvry,  then.     Alas !  thou'rt  gone. 
Pity  it  is  that  in  tlis  mood  we  part. 


COME  DOWN,  YE   SPIRITS! 

Come  down,  ye  Sp.'rits  !  in  your  might  come  down  ' 

Come  down,  ye  Spirits  of  this  midnight  hour! 

Come  down  in  all  your  dim  sublimity 

And  majesty  of  terror  !     How  I  joy 

To  meet  you  in  your  own  dark  territories. 

And  hold  mysterious  (.oaverse  in  a  tongue 

That  hath  quite  perished  anuong  the  sons 

Of  fallen  man  !     Ye  Spirits  tbaf  do  roam 

With  unconfined  footsteps  o'er  iJ\%r  paths 


DING   DONG  !  187 

Of  measureless  eternity, — ye  who  skim 
The  bosomed  cloud,  or  pace  with  hasty  step 
The  earth's  green  surface,  and  its  every  spot, 
Though  ne'er  so  lone,  deserted,  and  profound, 
llepeople  with  strange  sounds  and  voices  sweet, 
AVhich  circle  round,  even  when  all  else  is  still. 
And  breed  in  vulgar  breasts  a  nameless  drea-.i 
And  awe  inexplicable,  which  bids  the  flesh 
To  creep,  as  if  its  every  fibre  were 
A  many-footed  and  a  living  thing. 
Come  down  !  come  down  ! 

I  hear  ye  come  !     I  hear  your  sounding  wing^ 
Beat  the  impassive  air  with  mighty  strokes. 
And  in  the  flickering  moonshine  I  can  see 
Your  shadowy  limbs,  descending  like  a  mist 
Of  fleecy  whiteness,  on  the  slumbering  earth. 
And  now  I  hear  the  mingled  hanuonies 
Of  all  your  voices  fill  the  vaulted  sky. 
Ye  call  upon  me, — and  my  soul  is  glad 
To  meet  you  on  your  pilgrimage,  and  join 
Its  feeble  echoes  to  your  mighty  song. 


DING  DONG! 

Ding  donjr !  dins  donnj ! 
The  church  bells  chime 
At  early  prime, — 
A  solemn  stave, — 
Dinffdono;!  dinsdonoj! 
O'er  the  lovers'  grave. 

Ding  dong !  ding  dong  ! 
The  slow  sounds  weep, 


188  DING   DOXg! 

And  cadence  keep 
With  the  wail  of  woe, — 
Ding  dong !  ding  dong  I 
O'er  the  grave  below. 

Ding  dong  !  ding  dong ! 
Strew  garlands  round 
The  holy  ground 
Where  twin  hearts  sleep. 
Ding  dofig  !  ding  don"- ! 
And  two  friends  weep. 


Ding  dong  !  ding  dong  ! 
The  churcli  bells  play 
At  close  of  day, 
With  hollow  tone. 
Ding  dong  !  ding  dong  1 
They  ever  moan. 

Ding  dong !  ding  dong  ! 
Cold  death  hath  laid 
In  earthly  bed 
Two  hearts  alone. 
Ding  dong!  ding  dong! 
And  made  them  one. 

Ding  dong !  ding  dong ! 
The  church  bells  loom 
Above  the  tomb 
Wiiere  true  loves  meet 
Ding  dong  !  Ding  dong  f 
How  sad  and  sweetT 


I 


CLERKE  RICHARD  AND  MAID  MARGARET,    189 


CI.ERKE   RICHARD   AND  MAID  MARGA- 
RET. 

"  A  man  must  nedes  love  maugre  his  hed, 
He  may  not  fleen  it  though  he  should  be  ded." 

Chauceb. 

There  were  two  lovers  who  loved  eacli  other 
For  many  years,  till  hate  did  start. 
And  yet  they  never  quite  could  smother 
The  former  love  that  warmed  their  heart ; 
And  both  did  love,  and  both  did  hate, 
Till  both  fulfilled  the  will  of  fate. 

Years  after,  and  the  maid  did  marry 
One  that  her  heart  had  ne'er  approved  ; 
Nor  lono;er  could  Gierke  Richard  tarry 
AVhere  he  had  lost  all  that  he  loved. 
To  foreign  lands  he  reckless  went 
To  nourish  love,  hate,  discontent. 

A  word — an  idle  word  of  folly — 

Had  spilled  their  love  when  it  was  yoimg, 

And  hatred,  grief,  and  melancholy, 

In  either  heart  is  idly  sprung; 

And  yet  they  loved, — and  hate  did  wane, 

And  much  they  wished  to  meet  again. 

Of  Richard  still  is  Margaret  dreaming  ; 
His  iniagi!  lingered  in  her  breast ; 
And  oft  at  midnight,  to  her  seeming, 
Her  former  lover  stood  contest ; 
And  shedding  on  her  bosom  tears. 
The  bitter  wrecks  of  happier  years. 

Where'er  he  went,  by  land  or  ocean, 
Still  Richard  sees  dame  Margaret  there  ; 


190   CLERKE  RICHARD  AND  MAID  MARGARET. 

And  every  throb  and  kind  emotion 
His  bosom  knew  were  felt  for  her. 
And  never  new  love  hath  he  cherished ; 
The  power  to  love  with  first  love  perished. 

Homeward  is  Gierke  Richard  sailing, 
An  altered  man  from  him  of  old,     • 
His  hate  had  changed  to  bitter  wailing. 
And  love  resumed  its  wonted  hold 
Upon  his  heart,  which  yearned  to  see 
The  haunts  and  loves  of  infancy. 

He  knew  her  faithless,  nathless,  ever  ; 
He  loved  her,  though  no  more  his  own ; 
Nor  could  he  proudly  now  dissever 
The  chain  that  round  his  heart  was  thrown. 
He  loved  her  without  liope,  yet  true, 
And  sought  her  but  to  say  adieu. 

For  even  in  parting  there  is  pleasure, 
A  bitter  joy  that  wrings  the  soul ; 
And  there  is  grief  surpassing  measure. 
That  will  not  bide  nor  brook  control ; 
And  yet  a  formal,  fond  leave-taking 
Is  wib'hed  for  bv  a  heart  nigh  breaking. 


o 


O,  there  is  something  in  the  feeling. 
And  trembling  falter  of  the  hand, 
And  something  in  the  tear  down  stealing, 
And  voice  so  broken  and  so  bland. 
And  something  in  the  w>ord  farewell, 
That  worketh  like  a  powerful  spell ! 

These  lovers  met,  and  never  parted  ; 

They  met  as  lovers  wont  to  do 

Who  meet  when  both  are  broken-hearted. 

To  breathe  a  last  and  long  adieu. 

Pale  Margaret  wept.     Gierke  Richard  sighftJ  ; 

And,  folded  in  each  other's  arms,  they  died. 


LORD  ARCHIBALD.  191 

Yes,  they  rlifl  die  ere  word  was  spoken ; 
Surprise,  grief-love,  had  chained  their  tongue  ; 
And  now  that  hatred  was  ywroken, 
A  wondrous  joy  in  them  had  sprung. 
And  then  despair  froze  either  heart, 
Which  lived  to  meet, — but  died  to  part. 

Gierke  Richard  he  was  buried  low 

In  fair  Linlithgow;  and  his  love 

Was  laid  beside  him  there;  and  lo, 

A  bonnie  tree  did  grow  above 

Their  double  grave,  and  it  doth  flourish 

Green  o'er  the  spot  where  love  did  perish. 


LORD  ARCHIBALD. 


A    BALLAD. 


O,  SAFTLiE,  saftlie  laie  liim  doun,  and  hap  npo 

his  heid 
The  cauld  reid  erd  ful  lichtlle  feris,  this  is  a  knicht- 

lie  i-ede  ; 
And  pight  a  carvit  croce  of  stane  abune  quhare  he 

dois  lye. 
Syne  it  was  for  the  halie  rude  Lord  Archibald  did 

die. 

Its  taftlle,  saftlie  have  thay  layd  Lord  Archibald 

in  graif, 
And  its  dowie,  dowie  owre  his  bouk  thair  plumig 

and  banneris  waif; 
And  its  lichtlie,  lichtlie  doe  thay  hap  the  red  erth 

on  his  heid ; 
And  waefil  was  ilk  knichtly  fere  to  lulk  upon  the 

deid. 


192  LORD   ARCHIBALD. 

Thay  layd  liim  doun  wi'  sighe  and  sab,  and  they 

layd  him  doun  •wi'  tearis  ; 
And  nou  abune  the   Olyve  wuddis  the  ice-cauld 

mune  apperis ; 
Quhyl  thai  muntit  on  thayr  stedis  amayne  a  sor- 

rowand  cumpanie, 
And  be  the  munelicht  forthy  thai  begin   a   lang 

jornie. 

Awa  thai  rade,  away   thai  rade,   and   the   wynd 

souohit  eerie  by, 
And  quhiskit  aff  ilk  heavie  tere  quhilk  gatherit  in 

thair  eye ; 
For  weil  thay  luvit  Lord  Archibald  as  knichtis  suld 

luve  thair  feris ; 
But  littil  thai  affect   Sjt  Hew,  quha  now  thair 

fealtie  bearis. 

Its  thai  have  spurrit,  and  egre  spurrit,  and  thair 

stedes  ar  al  a  fome, 
And   nevir   a   word   frae   anie   lip   of  thir  silent 

knichtis  hes  come ; 
And  still  they  spurrit  and  pukit  on,  til  a  lonesum 

lodge  they  wan, 
Then  voydit  thae  thair  saddilis  al,  and  til  the  yett 

thay  ran. 

Nae  licht  is  schinand  in  the  lodge,  and  nae  portir 

keepis  the  dore  ; 
Nae  warder  strade,  wi  lustie  spere,  that  dreirie 

lodge  before ; 
Nae  harp  is  'heard  inurth  the  hall,  and  nae  sang 

frae  ladie  braive, 
But  al  was  quiet  as  Ermites  houff,  and  stylliche  as 

the  grave. 

Swith  pacit  thai  in  be  twa  and  twa,  ilk  wi  his  out- 
drawn  swerd, 

And  thai  gang  throu  vaultit  passages,  albeit  nae 
sound  thay  heard, 


LOUD   ARCHIBALD.  193 

Bot  and  it  was  the  heavy  clamp  quhilk  thair  fit  rang 

on  the  fiore, 
Til  that  thay  stude,  ilk  knicht  of  them,  fomentes 

the  grit  hall  dore. 

Now  entir  thou,  the  bauld  Syr  Hew,  for  treason  do 

we  feare ; 
Now  entir  first,  as  Captaine  thou,  of  your  brithern 

knichtis  sae  dier ; 
For  syne  the  gude  Lord  Archibald  was  layd  aneth 

the  stane. 
Our  manlyke  courage  has  yfled,  and  al  our  hertis 

have  gane. 

The  dark  Syr  Hew  gade  on  before,  and  ane  yreful 

man  was  he  : 
"  O,  schame  upon  your  manheidis  al,  and  dishonour 

on  ye  be ; 
Quhat  fleyis  ye  sua  that  nane  may  daur  to  threuw 

this  chalmer  lok  ?  " 
Then  wi'  his  iron  gauntlet  he  that  aiken  dore  has 

broke. 

"  Come  in,  Syr  Hew;  come  in,  Syr  Hew,"  a  voice 

cryit  fra  within ; 
"  Come  in,  Syr  Hew,  my  buirdly  bairn,  quhilk  are 

sua  wicht  and  grim. 
But  nevir  nane  sal  entir  here  bot  an  yoursel  alane ; 
Now  welcum  blythe  to  dark  Syr  Hew  in  this  puir 

lodge  of  stane." 

Ilk  knicht  did  hear  the  lonsum   voyce,   but  the 

speiker  nane  did  see. 
And  dark  Syr  Hew  waxit  deadlie  pale,  quhyl  the 

mist  cam  owre  his  ee. 
"  Now  turn  wi'  me,  my  merrie  men  al,  to  hald  us 

on  our  way, 
For  in  this  ugsum  lodge  this  nicht  nae  pilgnmer 

may  stay."     • 
13 


194  LORD  ARCHIBALD. 

"  Come  back,   Syr  Hew,  my  knicht  of  grace,  and 

come  hither  my  trusty  fere  ; 
For  thou  hast  wan  a  gudely  fee,  though  nae  lerges 

ye  mote  spere ; 
O,  three  woundis  were  on  your  britheris  face,  and 

three  abune  liis  knee  ; 
But  the  deepest  wound  was  throu  his  hert,  and  that 

was  gi'en  be  thee." 

Ilk  ane  has  lieard  the  lonesum  voyce,  for  it  was 

sehil  and  hie ; 
Ilk  ane  has  heard  its  eerie  skreich  as  it  gaed  soun- 

ing  by ; 
Yet  mervailous  dul  that  lodge  dois  seem,  and  bot 

anie  bruit  or  din  ; 
Nae  liand  wicht  dois  herbour  here   but  an   that 

voyce  within. 

And  everie  knicht  has  turnit  him  round  to  leave 

that  hauntit  ha', 
And  muntit  on  his  swelterand  stede,  and  pricket 

riclit  sune  awa' ; 
And  quhan  this  gallant  cumpanye  auld  Askelon 

had  nearit, 
The  wan  muiie  had  gane  fra  the  lift,  and  the  grai 

daylight  apperit. 

Then  did  they  count  thair  numberis,  and  thay 
couiitit  wyse  and  true, 

And  everilk  ane  was  thair  convenit  but  and  the 
dark  Syr  Hew ; 

But  in  the  press  his  horse  was  kythit  wi'  ane  saddil 
toom  and  bai-e  ; 

Och  and  alace,  its  luaister  sure  liggis  in  som  lane- 
lie  lair. 

Back  hae  thay  ridden  league  and  myl,  but  nevir 

Syr  Hew  thai  see  ; 
Back  hae  thay  ridden  league  and  myl  til  quhare 

that  lodge  suld  be ; 


LORD    ARCHIBALD.  195 

Och  and  alace,  nae  lodge  is  thair,  nouthir  of  stane 

nor  wud, 
But  quhair  it  was  lay  the   dark   Syr   Hew  amid 

thick  elotterit  blude. 

Hi 3  lyre  was  wan,  his  teeth  were  clenchit,  and  his 

eyne  did  open  stare, 
And  wonderouslie  lyke  stiffened  cordis  studc  up 

his  coal-black  hair, 
And  his  hand  was  glewit  until   the   haft   of   his 

swerd  sue  scharp  and  trew, 
Bot  the  blade  was  broke,  and  on  the  grund  it  lay 

in  pieces  two. 

He  streiket  was  upon  the  garse,  and  it  was  red  of 
blee, 

Wi'  the  drappyng  of  the  ruddie  blude  that  trinklit 
doun  his  knee; 

And  his  brunie  bricht  was  dintit  sair,  and  heart  in 
pieces  ten, 

O,  nevir  was  a  knicht  sae  hackit  by  armis  of  mor- 
tal men. 

Thay  sayit  to  raise  him,  bot  alace,  thai  culd  not 

muve  a  limm ; 
But  heavie  as  the  lead  he  lay,  that  Captaine  dark 

and  brym  ; 
And  his  eye  was  luik,  and  ficrslie  fell,  and  his  hand 

was  rased  a  lite, 
Albeit  no  lyf  was  in  the  corps  of  that  cauld  paly 

kniglite. 

Then  did  thay  leave  him  on  that  spot  to  rot  and  fal 

away. 
And  thay  put  na  stane  upon  his  heid,  and  on  his 

corps  nae  clay, 
For  thay  had  lerit  in  ferly  wise  that  hindernicht  I 

rede, 
That  dark  Syr  Hew,  by  felon  means,  did  make  his 

brither  bleed. 


196  AND   HAVE   I    GAZED? 


AND  HAVE  I  GAZED? 

And  have  I  sazed  on  this  bricrht  form 
While  it  was  fast  decaying  i 
And  have  I  looked  on  these  pale  lips 
While  ghastly  death  and  woman's  love 
Thereon  with  sniiles  were  playing  ? 
And  do  I  see  that  lustrous  eye 
Now  quenched  in  hopeless  night  ? 
And  was  that  feebly-murmured  sigh 
Thy  spirit's  heavenward  flight  ? 

A  moment  since  that  eye  was  bright, 

A  moment  since  it  beamed  on  me, 

And  now  that  lovely  orb  of  light 

]s  fixed  on  dull  vacuity; 

That  bosom  throbbed,  that  cheek  \vas  warm, 

And  in  that  round  and  polished  arm 

The  thin,  blue  veins  were  filled  with  life; 

Now  motionless  and  pale  they  lie ; 

Sad,  beauteous  wrecks  of  that  stern  strife 

In  which  a  soul  escaped  on  high ! 

Can  I  forget  thy  sad,  sweet  smile, 

Thy  last,  thy  long,  impassioned  look  ? 

Can  I  forget  the  last  farewell 

It  then  so  fondly  took  ? 

O,  no  ! — methinks  thy  lips  stiU  seem 

That  smile  of  deepest  love  to  beam. 

And  these  eyes,  that  now  calmly  sleep 

Beneath  their  half-closed,  thin,  transparent  coverSi 

Have  all  the  lustre  in  their  slumber  deep 

They  had  in  life,  and  proud  dominion  keep 

With  light  and  sunshine  over  hearts  and  lovers. 

Vain  thought!     Imagination's  hollow  trick 

To  wean  the  heart  from  brooding  o'er  its  sorrow, 


SHE    IS   NOT    DEAD.  197 

Awaj' !     Death's  blighting  dews  have  fallen  tliick 
On  that  dear  maiden's  pale  and  bloodless  cheek. 
She  smiled  to-day ;  some  gentle  words  did  speak, 
But  nor  one  smile  nor  syllable  will  break 
The  silence  of  to-morrow  ! 

Feast,  feast  mine  eyes  on  happiness  forelore, 

Banquet  on  loveliness  that  hath  not  died, 

A  beauty  slumbers  there  as  heretofore, 

A  soul  made  to  be  deified. 

What  though  the  rose,  like  coward  base,  hath  fled 

From  this  cold  cheek  !  the  lily  still  is  there ; 

And  mark  how  its  pure  white  is  softly  spread. 

Where  not  one  vagrant  rose  shall  dare 

Again  to  blossom  on  this  maiden's  cheek, 

Or  its  bright  innocence  with  shame  to  streak. 


SHE  IS  NOT  DEAD. 

She  is  not  dead, — O,  do  not  say  she's  dead  ! 
Good  friends,  she  lives  !  what  though  the  rose  hath 

fled 
From  her  sweet  face,  doth  not  the  lily  there 
As  beautiful  a  form  and  semblance  bear  ? 
Good  friends,  I  say  she  lives  !  her  beauty  lives  !  . 
And  death  destroys  all  loveliness  of  hue  ; 
And  were  she  dead,  that  lustre  life  but  gives, 
From  her,  methinks,  would  have  evanished  too. 

Good  friends,  join  with  me, — do  but  give  me  space 
To  feast  upon  the  beauties  of  this  face. 
Slie  lives  in  death,  she  triumphs  in  the  tomb 
And,  like  a  grave's  llower,  springs  in  freshei  bloom 
The  nearer  it  is  planted  to  the  dead  ! 
Raise,  raise  a  little  more  her  drooping  head  ; 


108  SHE    IS    XOT    DEAD. 

Her  bosom  heaves  not, — 'tis  like  marble,  white, 
And,  like  it,  cold.     But  mark  how  exquisite 
And  finely  fashioned  is  this  pale,  stiff  arm 
Which  sleeps  upon  it ;  touch  it,  it  will  not  harm. 
No,  not  one  finger  moves ;  they're  locked  in  sleep, 
And  very  cold  withal ;  pray  do  not  weep. 
Else  I  would  weep  too,  that  I  could  not  break 
Her  pleasant  slumbers  for  your  pity's  sake. 

Good  friends,  I  pray  withdraw  that  veil  once  more, 
And  say,  is  she  not  lovely  as  before  ; 
Ilath  not  this  Vjrow,  this  cheek,  tliis  neck,  this  arm, 
And  this  fair  body,  all  some  goodly  charm 
Hovering  around  them,  though  the  soul  is  gone 
On  some  far  pilgrimage  from  this  bright  one  ? 
Men  say  this  maiden  loved  me, — simple  me, 
Even  from  the  cradle  and  sweet  infancy, 
Till  we  had  learned  speech  to  speak  our  loves 
As  others  do,  by  streams  and  shaded  groves ; 
But  that  is  false  in  part,  for  never  word 
Of  love  from  either  lip  by  us  was  heard  ; 
The  tongue  is  false  and  cogging,  but  the  eye, 
The  vanishing,  rosy  smile,  speak  faithfully. 
Yes,  Love  beneath  these  cold  lids  did  repair. 
As  to  a  crystal  palace,  there  to  blend 
His  essence  with  the  lights  they  did  defend  ; 
And  when  they  oped  their  portals,  what  a  liglit 
Poured  from  the  worlds  they  hid !     Two  briglit, 
All-radiant  worlds, — two  stars  of  living  fire, 
Having  joint  sway  and  majesty  entire 
AVithin  their  fair  domains  and  beauteous  spheres, 
And  gemmed  with  diamonds  like  to  dropping  tears. 
And    Love    was    there    enshrined,    and    laughed 

through 
The  pensive  glories  of  these  eyes  so  blue. 


199 


SWEET    EARLSBURN,    BLITHE    EARLS- 
BURN. 

Sweet  Earlsburn,  blithe  Earlsburn, 

Mine  own,  my  native  stream, 
My  heart  grows  young  again,  while  thus 

On  thy  green  banks  I  dream. 
Yes,  dream  !  in  sooth  I  can  no  more, 

For  as  thy  murmurs  roll, 
They  wake  the  ancient  melodies 

That  stirred  my  infant  soul. 

I've  told  thee,  one  by  one,  the  thoughts — 

Strange,  shapeless  forms  were  they — 
That  hung  around  me  fearfully 

In  childhood's  dreamy  day. 
And  still  thy  mystic  music  spake, 

Dimly  articulate, 
Yielding  meet  answer  to  the  dreanis 

That  shadowed  forth  my  fate. 

I've  wept  by  thee,  a  sorrowing  child  ; 

I've  sported,  mad  with  glee  ; 
And  still  thou  wert  the  only  one 

That  seemed  to  care  for  me  ; 
For  in  whatever  mood  I  came 

To  wander  by  thy  brim, 
Thy  murmurs  were  most  musical, 

Soul-soothing  as  a  hymn. 

I've  wandered  far  in  other  lands. 

And  mixed  with  stranger  men, 
But  still  my  heart  untravelled  sought 

Repose  within  thy  glen. 
The  pictures  of  my  memory 

Were  fresh  as  they  were  limned, 
Nor  change  of  scene,  nor  lapse  of  years, 

Their  lustre  ever  dimmed. 


200  BEGONE,  BEGONE,  THOU  TRUANT  TEAB. 


BEGONE,  BEGONE,  THOU  TRUANT 
TEAR. 

Begone,  begone,  thou  truant  tear, 

That  trenibles  on  my  cheek, 
And  I'ar  away  be  borne  the  sigh 

That  more  than  words  can  speak. 

And  cease,  my  merry  harp,  to  wake 

.The  song  of  former  days, 
And  perish  all  the  minstrel  lyre 

That  framed  these  happy  lays. 

She  loves  me  not  who  woke  these  strains, 

Then  wherefore  should  they  be  ? 
True,  she  doth  smile  as  she  was  wont, 
But  doth  she  smile  on  me  ? 

Her  neck  with  kindly  arch  ne'er  bends 

When  Ustening  to  my  song, 
Nor  do  her  passion-moving  lips 

The  trembling  notes  prolong. 

Time  was,  indeed,  when  she  would  hang 

Enamoured  on  my  theme ; 
Biit  ah  !  that  happy  time  hath  fled. 

And  vanished  like  a  dream. 

Peace,  tliou  proud  heart,  and  prate  no  more 

Thy  sun  of  joy  hath  set. 
And  dark  and  starless  is  the  sky 

The  troubadour  has  met. 


THE   patriot's   DEATH.  20'l 


O,    BABBLE    NOT    TO    ME,    GRAY   EILD. 

O,  BABBLE  not  to  me,  Gray  Eild, 

Of  days  and  years  misspent. 
Unless  thou  canst  again  restore 

Youth's  scenes  of  merriment. 

Canst  thou  recall  to  me  the  heart 

That  bounded  sorrow-free, 
Or  wake  to  life  the  lovely  one 

Who  stole  that  heart  from  me  ? 

Canst  thou  by  magic  art  compel 

The  shrouded  dead  to  rise, 
And  all  the  friends  of  early  years 

Again  to  glad  my  eyes  ? 

Canst  thou  renew  Hope's  flattering  dream, 

That  promised  joys  in  store, 
Or  bid  me  taste  again  those  few, 

Alas  !  that  are  no  more  ? 

Then  babble  not  to  me,  Gray  Eild, 
Of  days  and  years  misspent. 

Unless  thou  canst  again  restore   • 
Youth's  dreams  of  sweet  content. 


SONNET.— THE  PATRIOT'S   DEATH. 

His  eye  did  lose  its  lustre  for  a  space. 
And  a  bright  color  mantled  o'er  his  face; 
His  lips  did  tremulous  move,  as  if  to  speak, 
But  no  words  came.     On  his  brow  did  break 
The  heavy  and  cold  dew  of  coming  death  • 


202  PALE   DAUGHTER   OF    THE   XIGHT. 

And  thick  and  difficult  had  grown  his  breath. 
A  moment's  space,  it  was  no  more,  for  soon 
Cahnness  and  sunshine  did  again  illume 
His  stern-resolved  features,  and  a  glow 
Of  deep  but  bridled  wrath  sat  on  his  brow ; 
But  it  frowned  not,  nor  did  his  piercing  eye 
Speak  aught  that  wronged  his  proud  heart's  privacy 
Fear  did  not  there  abide,  nor  yet  did  rage 
Gleam  in  its  fire.     Far  nobler  moods  assuage 
Its  potent  brilliance  and  restrain  its  ire  ; 
It  nothing  knew  but  the  brave  patriot's  fire, 
AVho  staketh  life  to  grasp  at  liberty, 
And  dies,  rejoicing  that  he  has  lived  free, 
Well  knowing  that  his  death  to  other  men 
Will  be  a  gathering  call, — a  watchword,  when 
The  brave  on  freedom  look  in  after  times. 


SONNET.— PALE   DAUGHTER   OF   THE 
NIGHT. 

O  THOU  most  beautiful  and  meek-eyed  vii-gin, 
Pale  daughter  of  tiie  night,  how  tempest-tost 
And  wildered  in  these  tliickening  clouds  thou  art, 
Yet  smiling  ever  with  so  sweet  a  face 
Of  lov"  around  thee,  that  in  truth,  methinks, 
Even  at  these  clouds  thou  canst  not  take  offence, 
Knowing  thy  glory  and  majestic  form 
Cannot  be  sullied  ;  and  the  innocent. 
Even  like  to  fliee,  with  undiminished  beam, 
]>urst  through  the  clouds  of  envious  calumny, 
1o  sliame  tlie  tongues,  and  give  the  lie  to  thoughta, 
Having  no  sainthke  ciiarity  !  O,  yes,  like  thee, 
Thus  shine  on  darkness  with  forgiving  look. 
For  Innocence  and  Mercy  are  twin-born  1 


SILVERY   HAIRS.  203 


SONNET.— THE  HAND'S  WILD  GRASP. 

The  hand's  wild  grasp,  tlie  dark  flash  of  the  eye, 
Like  tlie  troubled  gleam  of  a  winter's  sky, 
The  bosom's  bitter  throb,  the  half-choked  sigh, 
When  the  parting  hour  is  hurrying  nigh, 

Are  known  but  to  those  who  love. 
Sad  is  that  fateful  hour,  and  pale  the  cheek. 
And  fain  the  tongue  would,  but  it  cannot,  speak, 

And  the  cold  lips  will  not  move. 

O,  could  the  eyes  find  tears  kind  hope  hath  sprun^g, 

And  could  the  lips  but  syllable  a  sound, 

Albeit  to  wail,  the  heart  with  passion  wrung 

Would  to  its  prisoned  feeling  thus  give  vent ; 

But  in  an  icy  circle  they  are  bound, 

And  when  that  breaks,  the  heart's  last  chord  is  rentl 


SONNET.— SILVERY  HAIRS. 

Ha  I  on  my  brow,  what  straggling,  silvery  hairs 

Be  ye  who  curl  and  mingle  in  the  throng 

Of  a  more  youthful  race?     Beshrew  my  heart  1 

Ye  have  a  frosty  aspect  right  severe. 

And  come  to  babble  nonsense  of  the  times 

That  once  have  been,  and  of  the  days  that  speed 

With  noiseless  pinions  o'er  me, — of  the  grave 

That  hungers  for  me,  and  impatiently 

Awaits  my  coming.     Softly  now,  fair  sirs, 

Emblems  of  frail  mortality ;  in  sooth. 

Are  ye  the  fruits  of  time,  or  those  chance  weeds 

That  sorrow's  sullen  flood  hath  left  to  mock 

The  broken  heart  tliat  it  hath  desolated. 

And  killed  each  bud  of  hope  that  blossomed  there  t 


204  LADY   MARGARET. 


LADY  [MARGARET. 

I  LAY  within  tlie  chamber  lone 
Where  the  Lady  Marsaret  died; 

And  wildly  there  the  midnight  wind 
Like  hapless  spirit  sighed. 

I  mused  upon  that  peerless  One, 

So  beautiful  of  blee; 
And  marvelled  much  of  her  sad  death  g 

Time-hallowed  mystery  : 
For  as  a  rainbow-tinted  cloud, 

Smote  by  a  gentle  wind, 
Sails  o'er  the  deep,  slow-paced  and  proud. 

Yet  leaves  no  trace  behind ; 
Nor  can  conjecture  index  true 

Where  one  bright  shadow  lay, 
Till  all  has  melted  from  the  view, 

In  nothingness  away ; 
So  did  that  lady  vanish  quite, 

In  her  sad  latter  day  ! 

It  is  a  hundred  years  agone 

Since  living  limb  did  rest 
Within  that  chamber's  chilling  gloom, 

And  rose  a  living  guest ! 
But  many  a  brave  and  stately  corpse 

Of  lord  and  lady  tall 
Have  here  lain  cold  and  motionless 

Ere  their  proud  funeral  : 
For  no  sound  or  sight,  however  strange, 

Can  lifeless  flesh  appall. 
But  ancient  crones  have  noted  well 

Of  each  corpse  that  lay  there, 
That  writhen  was  each  ghastly  limb. 
The  eyelid  opened  wide  and  grim 

Each  cold,  dead  eye  did  glare. 


LADY   MARGARET.  205 

It  is  a  hundred  years  agone, 

Even  on  this  very  night, 
Since,  in  this  unsunned  room,  and  lone, 

Reposed  that  lady  bright, — 
A  miracle  of  loveliness, — 

A  very  beam  of  light. 
Blithe  dawns  the  morn,  her  bridal  morn, 

And  merry  minstrels  play  ; 
The  brisk  bridegroom,  and  all  his  kin, 
Came  trooping  with  a  joyous  din. 

In  seemliest  array. 
The  bridegroom  came,  but  ah  !  the  bride 

Was  missing  and  away  ! 
And  of  that  gentle  lady's  fate 

None  wot  of  till  this  day  ! 
And,  since  that  night,  all  tenantless 

Of  life  hath  been  her  room  ; 
Till  even  I  did  madly  break 

Upon  its  sacred  gloom. 

It  was  a  dull  and  eerie  night 

Of  wind  and  bitter  sleet, 
When  first  that  tomb-like  chamber  rung 

With  the  echoes  of  my  feet ; 
And  on  its  narrow  casements  hard 

The  hail  and  rain  did  beat, 
While   through  each  crazed    and   time-wora 
chink 

The  hollow  wind  did  moan. 
As  if  a  hundred  harps  were  strung 

Within  that  chamber  lone. 
And  every  minstrel  there  had  been 

Some  disembodied  one  I 

But  it  is  a  lofty  chamber, 

And  passing  rich  withal. 
When  on  its  iiilded  mouidin<Ts  huge 

The  quivering  moonbeams  fall. 
And  ever  and  anon,  in  sooth, 

Even  on  that  stormy  night, 


206  LADY   MARGARET, 

Would  some  pale,  tempest-shattered  ray- 
Through  the  dim  windows  find  its  way, — 

A  very  thread  of  light, — 
To  glimmer  on  tlie  needlecraft 

And  curious  tapestry 
Which  moulder  on  the  walls, — brave  scrolls 

Of  dim  antiquitye, 
Embodying  many  a  quaint  device 

Of  love  and  chivalrye. 

O,  it  is  a  lofty  chamber ! 

But  dull  it  is  to  see, 
In  the  dead  pause  of  the  deep  midnight, 

When  the  fagots  dying  be, 
And  naught  but  embers  red 

Tlirow  round  a  dubious  gleam, 
Like  the  indistinct  fbrthshadowings 

Of  a  sad  and  unquiet  dream. 
Then  suddenly  to  wake  from  sleep, 

To  gaze  round  that  dim  room, 
"We're  sure  to  feel  as  one  whose  pulse 

Again  beats  in  the  tomb, 
Swelling  with  idle  life  and  strength 

Within  its  stifling  gloom. 

'Twas  even  so  that  I  awoke 

(Sure  awake  I  could  not  be), 
Though  with  the  lifclikeness  of  waking  truths 

Were  all  things  clothed  to  me. 
'Twas  in  terror  1  awoke 

Within  that  chamber  dim  ; 
The  Hwcat-dro[)  burst  on  my  cold  brow, 

Dull  horror  numbed  each  limb. 
In  agony  my  temples  beat, 

Life  only  throbbed  there; 
And  creeping  cold,  like  living  things, 

Stood  up  each  clammy  hair. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  spell  from  hell 

Were  drugged  deep  with  the  air ; 


LADY   MARGARET.  207 

Yet  wherefore  should  I  fear 

To  me  was  all  unknown  ; 
For  that  chamber  was,  as  heretofon;, 

Dim,  desolate,  and  lone. 
And  I  heard  the  angry  winter's  wind 

Still  shrilly  whistling  by  ; 
I  heard  it  stir  the  leafless  trees, 

And  heard  their  faint  reply. 
While  the  ticking  clock,  right  audibly, 

Did  note  time's  passing  sigh. 
And,  like  some  dusky  banner  broad, 

Loud  flapping  in  the  breeze, 
The  faded  arras  on  the  walls 

Sung  its  own  exequies. 

Then,  then,  methought  I  heard  a  ibot; 

It  sounded  soft  and  still ; 
And  slowly  then  it  died  away, 

Like  echo  on  the  hill, 
Or  like  the  far,  faint  murmuring 

Of  a  lone  hermit  rill. 
Again  that  footstep  sounded  near. 

Again  it  died  away  ; 
And  then  I  heard  it  gliding  past 

The  couch  on  which  I  lay  ! 
I  raised  niy  head,  and  wildly  gazed 

Into  the  glimmering  gloom ; 
But  nothing  save  the  embers  red, 
That  on  the  spacious  hearth  were  spread, 

I  saw  within  that  room. 
And  all  was  dusky  round, 

Save  where  those  embers  shed 
A  pale  and  sickly  gleam  of  light 

On  the  Lady  Margaret's  bed. 

On  the  couch  where  I  did  lie 

That  sickly  light  did  shine 
With  one  bright  flash,  when,  as  a  voice 

Did  cry,  "  liebenge  fs  mine  !" 


208  LADY   MARGARET. 

Anotner  answered  straight, 

And  said,  "  ^hc  ijour  fs  come  !  " 
I  listened, — but  tliose  voices  twain 

For  evermore  were  dumb. 
But  again  the  still,  soft  foot 

Came  creeping  stealthy  on  ; 
And  then,  O  God !  mine  ear  upcaught 

A  deep  and  stifled  groan. 
It  echoed  through  the  lofty  room 

So  loud,  so  clear,  and  shrill, 
Methinks  even  to  my  dying  day 

I'll  hear  that  echo  still. 
Again  that  deep  and  smothered  groan,— 

That  rattle  m  the  throat, — 
That  awful  sob  of  struggling  life, — 

On  my  stramed  ear-strings  smote. 
In  desperate  fear  I  madly  strove 

To  start  from  that  witched  bed. 
But  on  my  breast  there  seemed  up-piled 

A  mountain-weight  of  lead. 
And  when  I  strove  to  speak  aloud, 

To  dissipate  that  spell, 
I  shuddered  at  the  shapeless  sounds 

That  from  nnnc  own  lips  fell. 
'Twas  then,  full  filled  with  fear,  I  shut 

iVIine  eyes  t'escape  the  gaze 
Of  that  dim  chamber's  arras'd  walls, 

With  their  tales  of  other  days, 
Lest  gliastly  shapes  should  start  from  them 

To  sport  in  horrid  glee 
Before  my  tortured  sight — dark  scenes 

Of  their  life's  tragedy. 
And  like  exulting  fiends  proclaim 

How  black  man's  heart  can  be. 

But  visionless  scant  space  I  lay 
With  throbbing  downshut  lid. 

When  o'er  my  brow  and  cheek,  dear  Lord  I 
A  clammy  coldness  slid. 


LADY   MARGARET.  209 

O'er  brow  and  cheek  I  felt  it  slide  ; 

And,  like  a  frozen  rill, 
The  blood  waxed  thick  within  my  veins, 

Grew  pulseless,  and  stood  still. 
O'er  brow  and  cheek  I  felt  it  slide, 

So  clammy  and  so  cold, 
Like  the  touch  of  one  whose  lifeless  limbs 

In  winding-sheet  are  rolled. 
Straight  upward  did  I  look,  and  then 

From  the  thick  obscurity — 
0,  horrible  I — there  downward  gleamed 

Two  glittering  eyes  on  me. 
From  the  ceiling  of  that  lofty  room 

These  glittering  eyes  did  stare  ; 
They  rested  on  me,  under  them, 

With  a  fixed  and  fearful  glare. 
O,  never  human  eyes  did  flash 

So  wild  and  strange  a  light, 
As  these  twin  eyes  straight  downward  poured 

On  that  unhappy  night. 
Their  beams  shot  down  like  lances  long, 

Unutterably  bright. 
And  still  these  glittering,  living  lights 

Did  steadfast  gaze  on  me ; 
And  each  fibre  of  my  heart  shrunk  up 

Beneath  their  sorcery. 
Still,  still  they  gleam, — their  searching  glance 

Has  pierced  into  my  brain. 
I  feel  the  stream  of  fire  pass  through, 

I  feel  its  cureless  pain  ! 

One  moment  seemed  to  pass,  and  then 

My  vision  waxed  more  clear. 
And  livelier  to  my  spell- fraught  sight 

These  blazing  eyes  appear, 
As  with  unholy  light  they  lit 

A  pallid  cheek  and  brow, 
And  quivered  on  a  lip  as  cold 

And  blenched  as  driven  snow. 
14 


210  LADY   MARGARET. 

And  I  did  gaze  on  that  pale  brow, 

And  on  that  lovesonie  cheek  ; 
I  watched  those  cold,  part-opened  lips,— 

Methought  that  they  would  speak  ; 
But  niotionless,  and  void  of  life 

As  monumental  stone, 
Was  every  feature,  save  those  eyes. 

That  evermore  outshone 
With  a  fearful  lustre,  that  to  life 

On  earth  is  never  known. 

That  face  was  all  a  deadly  white, 

Yet  beautiful  to  see ; 
And  indistinctly  floated  down 

Its  body's  symmetry, 
In  ample  folds  and  wimples  quaint 

Of  gorgeous  drapery. 
And  gleaming  forth,  like  spots  of  snow 

On  a  sad  colored  field, 
A  small,  white  hand  on  either  side 

Was  partially  revealed. 
O'er  me  a  deeper  horror, — 

A  marvellous  rush  of  light, — 
Long-perished  memories  returned 

Upon  that  fearful  night. 
I  heard  the  sounds  of  other  timei, 

The  tales  of  other  years. 
Reacted  were  their  sharpest  crimes', 

Outpoured  again  their  tears. 


POSTHUMOUS    POEMS. 


PREFATORY  NOTE, 

WTien  the  Second  Edition  of  Motherwell's  Poems  was 
published,  in  lb47,  it  was  stated  in  the  Preface  that  tho 
fragments  of  poetrj'  which  he  had  left  behind  him  in 
manuscript,  and  which  were  not  included  in  that  volume, 
might  be  given  to  the  public  at  some  future  day,  should 
any  encouragement  be  otTered  for  pursuuig  such  a  course. 
Tliis  the  Publisher  has  now  determined  to  do;  but  be- 
fore taking  such  a  stop,  he  resolved  to  submit  the  pieces 
in  question  to  the  critical  scrutiny  of  Motherwell's  old 
friend  and  poetical  ally,  Mr.  William  Kennedy,  who 
chanced  to  be  in  Scotland  at  the  time.  The  reader  will, 
therefore,  be  good  enough  to  understand  that  these  Poems 
have  been  selected  by  Mr.  Kennedy,  and  are  published 
under  his  express  authority.  The  Publisher  is  gi'atified 
in  being  able  to  make  this  statement,  as  it  relieves  him 
from  a  responsibility  which  he  feels  that  it  would  not  ba 
becoming  in  him  to  incur. 


0  THAT  THIS   AVEARY  WAR   OF  LIFE 

0  THAT  this  weary  war  of  life 

With  me  were  o'er, 
Its  eager  cry  of  woe  and  strife 

Heard  never  more ! 
I've  fronted  the  red  battle  field 

Mine  own  dark  day  ; 

1  fain  would  fling  the  helmet,  shield, 

And  sword  away. 
I  strive  not  now  for  victory — 
That  wish  hath  fled  ; 


212  CUOICE   OF   DEATH. 

My  prayer  Is  now  to  numbered  be 

Among  the  dead — 
All  that  I  loved,  alas ! — alas ! 

Hath  perished  ! 
They  tell  me  'tis  a  glorious  thing, 

This  wearing  war ; 
They  tell  me  joy  crowns  suffering 

And  bosom  scar. 
Such  speech  might  never  pass  the  lips 

That  could  unfold 
How  shrinketh  heart  when  sorrow  nips 

Affections  old : 
When  they  who  cleaved  to  us  are  dust. 

Why  live  to  moan  ? 
Better  to  meet  a  felon  thrust 

Than  strive  alone — • 
Better  than  loveless  palaces 

The  churchyard  stone ! 


CHOICE   OF  DEATH. 

Might  I,  without  offending,  choose 
The  death  that  I  would  die, 

I'd  fall,  as  erst  the  Templar  fell, 
Aneath  a  Syrian  sky. 

Upon  a  glorious  plain  of  war, 
The  bannc^rs  floating  fair, 

My  lance  and  iluttering  pcnnoncel 
Should  marshal  heroes  there ! 

Upon  the  solemn  battle-eve, 
With  prayer  to  be  forgiven, 

I'd  arm  me  for  a  rishteous  fisiht. 
Imploring  peace  of  Heaven ! 


MKE   MIST   ON   A   MOUNTAIN   TOP.  213 

Hijjh  o'er  the  thunders  of  the  charge 

Should  wave  my  sable  plume, 
And  where  the  day  was  lost  or  won, 

There  should  they  place  my  tomb  ! 


LIKE  MIST  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  TOP 
BROKEN  AND  GRAY. 

Like  mist  on  a  mountain  top  broken  and  gray, 
The  dream  of  my  early  day  fleeted  away  : 
Now  the  evening  of  life,  with  its  shadows,  steals  on, 
And  memory  reposes  on  yeai-s  that  are  gone ! 

Wild  youth  with  strange  fruitage  of  errors  and 

tears— 
A  midday  of  bliss  and  a  midnight  of  fears — 
Though  checker'd,  and  sad,  and   mistaken  you've 

been. 
Still  love  I  to  muse  on  the  hours  we  have  seen  1 

With   those  long-vanished  hours  fair  visions    are 

flown, 
And  the  soul  of  the  minstrel  sinks   pensive   and 

lone ; 
In  vain  would  I  ask  of  the  future  to  bring 
The  verdure  that  gladden'd  my  life  in  its  spring! 

I  think  of  the  glen  where  the  hazel-nut  grew — 
The  pine-covered  hill  where  the  heather-bell  blew— 
The  trout-burn  which  soothed  with  its  murmuring 

sweet. 
The  wild  flowers  that  gleamed  on  the   red  deer's 

retreat ! 

I  look  for  the  mates  full  of  ardor  and  truth. 
Whose  joys,  like   my  own,  were  the  sunbeams  of 
youth — 


214  SONG. 

They  passed  ere  the  morning  of  hope  knew  its 

close — 
They  left  me  to  sleep  where  our  fathers  repose  ! 

Where  is  now  the  wide  hearth  witli  the  big  fagot's 

blaze, 
Where  circled  the  legend  and  song  of  old  days  ? 
The  legend's  forgotten,  the  hearth  is  grown  cold, 
The  home  of  my  childhood  to  strangers  is  sold  ! 

Like  a  pilgrim  who  speeds  on  a  perilous  way, 
I  pause,  ere  I  part,  oft  again  to  survey 
Those  scenes  ever  dear  to  the  friends  I  deplore, 
Whose  feast  of  J'ouu't  smiles  I  may  never  share 

JO 

more ! 


SONG. 

If  to  thy  heart  I  were  aa  near 

As  thou  art  near  to  mine, 
I'd  hardly  care  though  a'  the  year 
Nae  sun  on  earth  suld  shine,  my  dear, 

Nae  sun  on  earth  suld  shine  ! 

Twin  starnies  are  thy  glancin'  een — 

A  warld  they'd  liclit  and  mair — 
And  gin  that  ye  be  my  Christine, 
Ae  blink  to  me  yc'll  spare,  my  dear, 
Ae  blink  to  me  yc'll  spare  I 

My  leesome  May  I've  wooed  too  lang— 

Aneath  the  trystin'  tree, 
I've  sung  till  a'  the  plantins  rang, 
Wi'  lays  o'  love  for  thee,  my  dear, 

Wi*  lays  o'  love  for  thee. 


TKUE    WOMAN.  215 

The  dew-draps  glisten  on  the  green, 

The  laverocks  lilt  on  high, 
We'll  forth  and  doun  the  loan,  Christine, 
And  kiss  when  nane  is  nigh,  my  dear, 

And  kiss  when  nane  is  nigh  ! 


TRUE   WOMAN. 

No  quaint  conceit  of  speech, 
No  golden,  minted  phrase — 

Dame  Nature  needs  to  teach 
To  echo  Woman's  praise ; 

Pure  love  and  truth  unite 

To  do  thee.  Woman,  right ! 

She  is  the  faithful  mirror 

Of  thoughts  that  brightest  be — 
Of  feelings  without  error, 

Of  matchless  constancie ; 
When  art  essays  to  render 

More  glorious  Heaven's  bow — 
To  paint  the  virgin  splendor 

Of  fresh-fallen  mountain  snow- 
New  fancies  will  1  find. 
To  laud  true  Woman's  mind. 

No  words  can  lovelier  make 

Virtue's  all-lovely  name. 
No  change  can  ever  shake 

A  woman's  virtuous  fame  : 
The  moon  is  forth  anew, 

Though  envious  clouds  endeavor 
To  screen  her  from  our  view — 

More  beautiful  than  ever: 
So,  through  detraction's  haze, 
True  Woman  shines  alwaies. 


216  FRIENDSHIP   AND   LOVE. 

The  many-tinted  rose, 
Of  gardens  is  the  queen, 

The  perfumed  Violet  knows 
No  peer  where  she  is  seen. 

The  flower  of  woman-kind 

Is  aye  a  gentle  mind. 


FRIENDSHIP   AND  LOVE. 

Oft  have  I  sighed  for  pleasure  past, 

Oft  wept  for  secret  smarting — 
But  far  tlie  heaviest  drop  of  all 
That  ever  on  my  cheek  did  fall 
The  tear  was  at  our  parting. 

Why  did  our  bosoms  ever  beat 
Harmonious  with  each  other, 
If  truest  sympathies  of  soul 
Might  broken  be,  perhaps  the  whole 
Concentred  in  another  ? 

My  fear  it  was  when  other  scenes. 
With  other  tongues,  and  faces, 

Should  greet  thee,  thou  would'st  haply  be 

Forgetful  of  our  amity 
In  old  frequented  places. 

'Tis  even  so — the  thrall  of  love. 

Past  ties  to  tliee  seem  common — 
Well,  hearts  must  yield  to  beauty  rare. 
And  proud-souled  friendsliip  hardly  dare 
Contest  the  prize  with  woman  ! 

Old  friend,  afJieu  !  I  blame  thee  not. 

Since  fair  guest  fills  thy  bosom — 
Thy  smiling  love  may  flattered  be 


HAE   YE   SEEN   MV   AIN   TRUE   LUVE.        217 

Our  bonds  to  know,  and  feel  that  she 
Thy  pow'r  had  to  unloose  them ! 

Since  thou  surrenderest  all  for  her, 

May  she,  with  faith  unshaken, 
Place  every  thou";ht  on  thee  alone, 
While  he  who  Friendship's  dream  hath  known, 

Must  from  that  dream  awaken  ! 


AND  HAE  YE  SEEN  MY  AIN  TRUE 
LUVE? 

'  And  hae  ye  seen  my  ain  true  luve 
As  ye  cam  thro'  the  fair  ? 
Ae  blink  o'  her's  worth  a'  the  goud 
And  gear  that  glistens  there  ! ' — 
'  And  how  suld  I  ken  your  true  luve 
Frae  ither  lasses  braw 
That  trysted  there,  busked  out  like  queens, 
Wi'  pearlins  knots  and  a'  ? ' 

'  Ye  may  ken  her  by  her  snaw-white  skin, 

And  by  her  waist  sae  sma' ; 
Ye  may  ken  her  by  her  searchin'  ee, 

And  hair  like  glossy  craw  ; 
Ye  may  ken  her  by  the  hinnie  mou, 

And  by  the  rose-dyed  cheek. 
But  best  o'  a'  by  smiles  o'  licht 

That  luve's  ain  language  speak  ! 

'  Ye  may  ken  her  by  her  fairy  step — 

As  she  trips  up  the  street, 
The  very  pavement  seems  to  shine 

Aneath  her  genty  feet ! 
Ye  may  ken  her  by  the  jewell'd  rings 

Upon  her  fingers  sma', 


218  THE   SPELL-IJOUXD   KXIGHT. 

Yet  better  by  the  dignity 

That  she  glides  throujih  them  a*. 

'  And  ye  may  ken  her  by  the  voice — 

The  music  o'  her  tongue — 
Wha  heard  her  speak  incontinent 

Wad  think  an  antrel  sung  ! 
And  such  seems  she  to  me,  and  mair, 

That  wale  o'  woman's  charms — 
It's  bliss  to  press  her  dear  wee  mou 

And  daut  her  in  my  arms ! ' 


THE  SPELL-BOUND  KNIGHT. 

J^ADY,  dar'st  thou  seek  the  shore 
Which  ne'er  woman's  footstep  bore;— • 
Where  beneath  yon  rugged  steep, 
Restless  rolls  the  darksome  deep  V 

Dar'st  thou,  though  thy  blood  run  chilly 
Thither  speed  at  midnight  still — 
And  when  horror  rules  the  sky, 
Raise  for  lover  lost  thy  cry  ? 

Dar'st  thou  at  that  ghastiest  hour 
Breathe  the  word  of  magic  power — 
Word  that  breaks  the  mermaid's  spell, 
AVhich  false  lover  knows  too  well  V 

When  affrighted  spectres  rise 
'Twixt  pale  floods  and  ebon  skies, 
Dar'st  thou,  reft  of  maiden  fear, 
Bid  the  Water-Witch  appear  ? 

When  upon  the  sallow  tide 
Pearly  elfin  boat  does  glide, 


CRUXTOUN   CASTLE.  219 

When  the  mystic  oar  is  heard, 
Like  the  wing  of  baleful  bird — • 
Dar'st  thou  with  a  voice  of  might 
Call  upon  thy  spell-bound  knight  ? 

When  the  shallop  neareth  land, 
Dar'st  thou,  with  thy  snow-white  hand, 
Boldly  on  the  warrior's  breast 
Place  the  Cross  by  Churchman  blest? — • 
When  is  done  this  work  of  peril, 
Thou  hast  won  proud  Ulster's  Earl ! 


•      CRUXTOUN    CASTLE. 

The  rearler  will  find  a  brief,  but  instructive,  account  of 
this  relic  of  Baronial  times — which,  at  difl'erent  periods, 
has  been  written  Cruxtoun,  Croestoun,  and  Crookston — in 
a  work  entitled  "  Views  in  Renfrewshire,"  by  Philip  A. 
Ramsay,  one  of  the  Poet's  earliest  and  truest  friends. 
Of  the  objects  of  antiquity  remaining;  in  Renfrewshire, 
Cruxtoun  Castle,  according  to  Mr.  Ramsay,  is,  in  point 
of  interest,  second  only  to  the  Abbey  of  Paisley.  "  The 
ruins  of  this  castle,"  he  obsei^ves,  "occupy  the  summit  of 
a  wooded  slope,  overhanging  the  south  bank  of  the  White 
Cart,  about  three  miles  southeast  from  Paisle\',  and  close 
to  the  spot  where  that  river  receives  the  waters  of  a 
stream  called  the  Levern.  The  scenery  in  this  neighbor- 
hood is  rich  and  varied,  and  although  the  eminence  on 
which  the  Castle  stands  is  but  gentle,  it  is  so  commanding 
that  our  great  Novelist  has  made  (iueen  Mary  remark, 
that,  '  from  thence  }-ou  may  see  a  prospect  wide  as  from 
the  peaks  of  Schehallion.'  To  Cruxtoun  Castle,  then 
the  property  of  Darnley.  Mary's  husband,  tradition  tells 
us,  the  royal  bride  was  conducted,  soon  after  the  celebra- 
tion of  their  nuptials  at  Edinburgh." 

Thou  gray  and  antique  tower, 
Receive  a  wanderer  of  the  lonely  night, 
Whose  moodful  sprite 
Rejoices  at  this  witching  time  to  brood 


220  CRUXTOUN   CASTLE. 

Amid  thy  shattered  strength's  dhn  solitude  ! 
It  is  a  fear-fraiialit  hour — 
A  death-like  stillness  reigns  around, 
Save  the  wood-skirted  river's  eerie  sound, 
And  the  faint  rustling  of  the  trees  that  shower 
Their  brown  leaves  on  the  stream, 
Mournfully  gleaming  in  the  moon's  pale  beam: 
O  !  I  could  dwell  forever  and  forever 
In  such  a  place  as  this,  with  such  a  night! 
When,  o'er  thy  waters  and  thy  weaving  woods, 
The  moonbeams  sympathetically  (juiver, 
And  no  ungentle  thing  on  thee  intrudes, 
'And  every  voice  is  dumb,  and  every  object  bright! 
Forgive,  old  Cruxtoun,  if,  with  step  unholy, 
Unwittingly  a  pilgrim  should  profane 
The  regal  quiet,  the  august  repose. 
Which  o'er  thy  desolated  summit  reign — 
When  the  fair  moon's  abroad,  at  evening's  close — 
Or  interrupt  that  touching  melancholy — 
Image  of  fallen  grandeur — softly  thrown 
O'er  every  crumbling  and  moss-bedded  stone, 
And  broken  arch,  and  pointed  turret  hoar, 
Which  speak  a  tale  of  times  that  are  no  more ; 
Of  triumphs  they  have  seen. 

When  Minstrel-craft,  in  praise  of  Scotland's  Queen, 
AVoke  all  tiie  magic  of  the  harp  and  song, 
And  the  rich,  varied,  and  fantastic  lore 
Of  those  romantic  days  was  carjied,  I  ween. 
Amidst  the  pillared  pomp  of  lofly  hall, 
]>y  many  a  jewelled  throng 
Of  smiling  dames  and  soldier  barons  bold  ; 
AVhen  the  loud  cheer  of  generous  wassail  rolled 
From  the  high  dais  to  where  the  warder  strode, 
IVoudly,  along  tin;  battlementcd  wall, 
Jkmeath  his  jwlished  armor's  ponderous  load  ; 
"Who  paused  to  hear,  and  carolled  back  again, 
With  martial  glee,  the  jocund  vesper  strain  : 
Thou  wilt  forgive  !     Mine  is  no  peering  eye, 
That  seeks,  with  glance  malign,  the  suffering  part, 


CRUXTOUN   CASTLE.  221 

Thereby,  with  hollow  show  of  sympathy, 
To  smite  airain  the  poor  world-wounded  heart : 
No — thy  mistbrtunes  win  from  him  a  sigh 
Whose    soul  towers,  like   thyself,  o'er  each  lewd 
passer-by. 

Relique  of  earlier  days. 

Yes,  dear  thou  art  to  me  I — 

And  beauteous,  marvellously. 

The  moonlight  strays 

Where  banners  glorious  floated  on  thy  walls — 

Clipping  their  ivied  honors  with  its  thread 

Of  half-angelie  light : 

And  though  o'er  thee  Time's  wastmg  dews  have 

shed 
Their  all  consuming  blight. 
Maternal  moonlight  falls 
On  and  around  thee  full  of  tenderness. 
Yielding   thy  shattered  frame   pure  love's  divine 

caress. 

Ah  me  !  thy  joy  of  youthful  lustihood 
Is  gone,  old  Cruxtoun  !     Ever,  ever  gone  ! 
Here  hast  thou  stood 
In  nakedness  and  sorrow,  roofless,  lone. 
For  many  a  weary  year — and  to  the  storm 
Hast  bared  thy  wasted  form — 
Braving  destruction,  in  the  attitude 
Of  reckless  desolation.     Like  to  one 
Who  in  this  world  no  longer  may  rejoice, 
Who  watching  by  Hope's  grave 
With  stern  delight,  impatient  is  to  brave 
The  worst  of  coming  ills — So,  Cruxtoun  !  thou 
Rear'st  to  the  tempest  thy  undaunted  brow  ; 
When  Heaven's  red  coursers  flash  athwart  the  sky — 
Startling  the  guilty  as  they  thunder  by — 
Then  raisest  thou  a  wild,  unearthly  hymn. 
Like  death-desiring  bard  whose  star  hath  long  beea 
dim! 


222  CRTJXTOUN   CASTLE. 

Nejrlected  thoujrh  thou  art, 
Sad  remnant  of  old  Scotland's  -worthier  days, 
"WTien  independence  had  its  chivalne, 
There  still  is  left  one  heart 
To  mourn  for  thee  ! 
And  though,  alas  !  thy  venerable  form 
Must  bide  the  buffet  of  each  vagrant  storm, 
One  spirit  yet  is  left  to  linger  here 
And  pay  the  tribute  of  a  silent  tear; 
AVho  in  his  memory  registers  the  dints 
That  Tune  hath  graved  upon  thy  sorrowing  brow  ; 
Who  of  thy  woods  loves  the  Autumnal  tints. 
Whose  voice — perforce  indignant — mingles  now 
In  all  thy  lamentations— with  the  tone. 
Not  of  these  paltry  times,  but  of  brave  years  long 
gone. 

Nor  is't  the  moonshine  clear, 

Leming  on  tower,  and  tree,  and  silent  stream, 

Nor  hawthorn  blossoms  which  in  Spring  appear, 

Most  prodigal  of  perfume — nor  the  sweets 

Of  wofjd-flowers,  peeping  up  at  the  blue  sky ; 

Nor  the  mild  aspect  of  blue  hills  which  greet 

The  eager  vision — blessed  ali)eit  they  seem. 

Each  with  its  charm  particular — To  my  eye. 

Old  Cruxtoun  hath  an  interest  all  its  own — 

From  many  a  cherished,  intersociate  thought — 

From  feelings  multitudinous  well  known 

To  souls  in  whom  the  patriot  fire  hath  wrought 

Sublime  remembrance  of  their  country's  fame : 

Radiant  thou  art  in  the  ethereal  flame — 

The  lustrous  splendor — which  those  feelings  shed 

O'er  many  a  scene  of  tliis  my  father-land  ! 

Thou,  gray  magician,  with  thy  potent  wand, 

Kvok'st  the  shades  of  the  illustrious  dead  ! 

The  mists  dissolve — up  rise  the  slumbering  years— 

On  come  the  knightly  riders  cap-a-pie 

The  herald  calls — hark,  to  the  clash  of  spears  1 
To  Beauty's  Queen  each  hero  bends  the  knee  ; 


CRUXTOUN    CASTLE.  223 

Dreams  of  the  Past,  how  exquisite  ye  be — 
Offspring  of  heavenly  faith  and  rare  antiquity  ! 

Light  feet  have  trod 

The  soft,  green,  flowering  sod 

That  girdles  thy  baronial  strength,  and  traced, 

All  gracefully,  the  labyrinthine  dance  ; 

Young  hearts  discoursed  with  many  a  passionate 

glance, 
While  rose  and  fell  the  Minstrel's  thrilling  strain — • 
(Who,  in  this  iron  age,  might  sing  in  vain — 
His  largesse  coarse  neglect,  and  mickle  pain  !) 
Waste  are  thy  chambers  tenantless,  which  long 
Echoed  the  notes  of  gleeful  minstrelsie — 
Notes  once  the  prelude  to  a  tale  of  wrong. 
Of  Royalty  and  love. — Beneath  yon  tree — 
Now  bare  and  blasted — so  our  annals  tell — 
The  mart}-r  Queen,  ere  that  her  fortunes  knew 
A  darker  shade  than  cast  her  favorite  yew, 
Loved  Darnley  passing  well — 
Loved  him  with  tender  woman's  generous  love, 
And  bade  farewell  awhile  to  courtly  state 
And  pageantry  lor  yon  o'ershadovving  grove — 
For  the  lone  river's  banks  where  small  birds  sing — 
Their  little  hearts  ^vith  summer  joys  elate — 
Where    tall    broom    blossoms,    flowers    profusely 

spring ; 
There  he,  the  most  exalted  of  the  land. 
Pressed,  with  the  grace  of  youth,  a   Sovereign's 

peerless  hand. 

And  she  did  die  I — 

Die  as  a  traitor — in  the  brazen  gaze 

Of  her — a  kinswoman  and  enemy — 

O  well  mav  such  an  act  mv  soul  amaze ! 

My  country,  at  that  hour,  where  slept  thy  sword  ? 

^Vhere  was  the  high  and  chivalrous  accord, 

To  fling  the  avenging  banner  of  our  land. 

Like  sheeted  flame,  foi'th  to  the  winds  of  heaven  ? 


224  KOLAND   AXD   ROSABELLE. 

O  shame  among  the  nations — thus  to  brook 
The  damning  stain  to  thy  escutcheon  given  ! 
How  could  tliy  sons  upon  their  mothers  look, 
Degenerate  Scotland  !  heedless  of  the  wail 
Of  thy  lorn  Queen,  in  her  captivity! 
Unmov'd  wert  thou  by  all  her  bitter  bale — 
Untouch'd  by  thought  that  she  had  governed  thee^ 
Hard  was  each  heart  and  colil  each  powerful  hand- 
No  harnessed  steed  rushed  panting  to  the  fight 
O  listless  fell  the  lance  when  Mary  laid 
Her  head  upon  the  block — and  high  in  soul. 
Which  lacked  not  then  thy  frugal  sympathy. 
Died — in  lier  widowed  beauty,  penitent — 
Whilst  thou,  by  foul  red-handed  faction  rent, 
Wert  falsest  recreant  to  sweet  majesty  ! 

'Tis  past — she  rests — the  scaffold  hath  been  swept, 
The  headsman's  guilty  axe  to  rust  consigned — 
But,  Cruxtoun,  while  thine  aged  towers  remain, 
And  thy  green  umbrage  wooes  the  evening  wind- 
By  noblest  natures  shall  her  woes  be  wept, 
Who  shone  the  glory  of  thy  festal  day : 
Whilst  aught  is  left  of  these  thy  ruins  gray, 
They  will  arouse  remembrance  of  the  stain 
Queen  Mary's  doom  hath  left  on  History's  page^ 
Remembrance  laden  with  reproach  and  pain. 
To  those  who  make,  like  me,  this  pilgrimage ! 


ROLAND  AND  ROSABELLE. 

A  TOMB  by  skilful  hands  is  raised, 
Close  to  a  sainted  shrine, 

And  there  is  laid  a  stalwart  Knight, 
The  last  of  all  his  line. 

Beside  that  noble  monument, 
A  Squire  doth  silent  stand, 


KOLANTD   AND   ROSABELLE.  225 

Leaning  in  pensive  wise  upon 
The  cross-hilt  of  his  brand. 

Around  him  peals  the  harmony 

Of  friars  at  even-song, 
He  notes  them  not,  as  passing  by 

The  hymning  brothers  throng  : 
And  he  hath  watched  the  monument 

Three  weary  nights  and  days, 
And  ever  on  the  marble  cold 

Is  fixed  his  steadfast  gaze. 

*'  I  pray  thee,  wakeful  Squire,  unfold  " — 

Proud  Rosabella  said — 
*'  The  story  of  the  warrior  bold, 

AVho  in  this  tomb  is  laid  !  " 
♦♦  A  champion  of  the  Cross  was  he  " — 

The  Squire  made  low  reply — 
"  And  on  the  shore  of  Galilee, 

In  battle  did  he  die. 

"  He  boujid  me  by  a  solemn  vow, 

His  body  to  convey 
Where  lived  his  love — there  rests  It  now, 

Until  the  judgment-day  : 
And  by  his  stone  of  record  here. 

In  loyalty  I  stand, 
Until  I  greet  his  leman  dear — 

The  Lady  of  the  Laud  ! " 

"  F^iir  stranger,  I  would  learn  of  thee 
The  gentle  warrior's  name, 
Who  fighting  fell  at  Galilee 

And  won  a  deathless  name  ?  " 
The  Squire  hath  fixed  an  eye  of  light 
Full  on  the  Lady  tall— 
"  Men  called,"  he  said,  "  that  hapless  Knight 
Sir  Roland  of  the  HaU  ! 


15 


226  SONG. 

"  His  foot  was  foremost  in  the  fray, 

And  last  to  leave  the  field — 
A  braver  arm  in  dany-cr's  dav 

Ne'er  shivered  lance  on  shield  !  " 
"  In  death,  what  said  he  of  his  love — 

Thou  faithful  soldier  tell  ?  " 
*'  Meekly  he  prayed  to  Him  above 

For  perjured  llosabelle." 

"  Thy  task  is  done — my  course  is  run- 

(O  fast  her  tears  did  fall !) 
I  am  indeed  a  perjured  one — 

Dear  Roland  of  the  Hall!" 
Even  as  the  marble  cold  and  pale, 

Waxed  Rosabella's  cheek ; 
The  faithful  IScjuire  resumed  travail- 

The  Lady's  heart  did  break ! 


SONG. 

How  1  envy  the  ring  that  encircles  thy  finger  !— 

Dear  daughter  of  beauty  how  happy  were  I 
If,  by  some  sweet  spell,  like  that  ring,  I  might  lia 

At  ease  in  the  light  of  thy  heart-thrilling  eye  1 

1  would  joy  in  the  music  thy  light  pulse  is  making, 
I  would  press  the  soft  cheek  where  the  rose-buda 
unfold — 
I  would  rest  on  the  brow  where  pure  thought's  ever 
waking, 
And  lovingly  glide  through  thy  tresses  of  gold. 

On  the  ripe  smiling  lip  which  young  Cupid  is  steep- 
ing 
In  dews  of  love's  day-dawn,  I'd  tenderly  play — 


FOR    BLITHER    FIELDS,    ETC.  227 

And    when    in   thy  innocence,  sweet,   thou  wert 
sleeping, 
I'd  watch  thee,  and  bless  thee,  and  guard  thee 
for  aye  I 


FOR    BLITHER    FIELDS    AND    BRAVER 
BOWERS. 

For  blither  fields  and  braver  bowers 

The  little  bird,  in  Spring, 
Quits  its  old  tree  and  wintry  hold, 

With  wanton  mates  to  sing ; 
And  yet  awhile  that  wintry  home 

To  branch  and  twig  may  cling ; 
But  wayward  blast,  or  truant  boy, 

May  rend  it  soon  away, 
And  scatter  to  the  heedless  winds 

The  toil  of  many  a  day — 
And  where,  when  Winter  comes,  shall  then 

The  bird  its  poor  head  lay  ? 

The  moss,  the  down,  the  twisted  grass, 

The  slender  wands  that  bound 
The  dear  warm  nest,  are  parted  now, 

Or  scattered  far  around — 
Belike  the  woodman's  axe  hath  felled 

The  old  tree  to  the  ground  ! 
And  now  keen  Winter's  wreathing  snows 

O'er  frozen  nature  lie — 
The  sun  forgets  to  warm  the  earth, 

Forgets  to  light  the  sky  ; 
I  fear  me  lest  the  wandering  bird 

May,  houseless,  shivering,  die  ! 

Forgive  me,  Helen — thou  art  free 
To  keep,  or  quit,  the  nest 


228  HOPE   AND   LOVE. 

I  built  for  thee,  and  sheltered  in 

The  foliage  of  my  breast, 
And  fenced  so  well  none  other  might 

Be  harbor'd  there  as  guest. 
Flee  if  tliou  wilt — if  other  love 

Thy  fickle  heart  enfold, 
Thou'rt  free  to  rove  where  fancy  waves 

Her  wand  of  fairy  gold — 
But  Helen,  ere  thou  canst  return, 

This  bosom  will  be  cold  ! 


HOPE   AND   LOVE. 

Through  life  on  journeying,  by  its  thorny  paths 
Or  pleasant  ways — its  rank  green  hemlock  wastes, 
Or  roseate  bowers — in  utter  loneliness, 
Or  'mid  the  din  of  busy  multitudes — 
Two  babes  of  beauty  linger  near  us  still — 
Twin  cherubim — that  leave  us  not  until 
We've  passed  the  threshold  of  that  crowded  inn 
Which  borders  on  Eternity  !     One  doth  point, 
With  gleaming  eye  and  finger  tremulous, 
To  clefts  in  azure,  where  the  sunbeams  slumber 
On  couch  of  vermeil  dye  and  amethyst, 
Bordered  with  flowers  that  never  know  decay ; 
Where  living  fountains,  cool  and  argentine, 
Trill  on  in  measured  cadence,  night  and  morn  : 
The  other,  with  an  eye  of  sweet  regard, 
And  voice  the  spirit  of  pure  melody, 
Sheds  o'er  the  darkest  tra(;k  some  ray  of  gladness— < 
To  elevate  the  heart,  and  nerve  the  soul. 
With  unslacked  sinews,  vigorously  to  brave 
The  perils  of  the  unattempted  road : 
Love,  gentle  Love — one  fellow  pilgrim  is — 
The  other  Hope — dear,  never-dying  Hope  ! — 
And  they  to  cliurle,  as  well  as  keysour  yield 
The  tender  ministurintr  of  faithful  friends  I 


SONGE   OF   THE   SCHIPPE.  229 


SONGE   OF  THE   SCIEPPE. 

When  surly  windes  and  grewsome  cloudes 

Are  tilting  in  the  skye, 
And  every  little  star's  abed, 

That  glimmered  cheerilie — 
O  then  'tis  meet  lor  mariners 

To  steer  righte  caretulie  ! 
For  mermaides  sing  the  schippman's  dirge, 
Where  ocean  weddes  the  skye — 
A  blessing  on  our  gude  schippe  as  lustilie  she  sailes, 
O  what  can  match  our  gude  schippe  when  blest  with 
favoring  gales  ! 

Blythely  to  the  tall  topmast, 

Up  springs  the  sailor  boy — 
Could  he  but  hail  a  distant  port, 
How  he  would  leap  with  joy  ! 
By  bending  yard  and  rope  he  swings — 

A  fair-haired  child  of  glee — 
But  oh  !  a  cruel  sawcie  wave 
Hath  swept  him  in  the  sea  ! 
There's  sadness  in  the  gude  schippe  that  breasts  the 

waters  wild, 
Though  safe  ourselves,  we'll  think  with  tears  of  our 
poOr  ocean-child ! 

Our  mainmast  now  is  clean  cut  downe, 

The  tiickle  torn  away — 
And  thundering  o'er  the  stout  schippe's  side, 

The  seas  make  fearful  play  ! 
Yet  cheerlie  cheerlie  on  we  go, 

Though  fierce  the  tempest  raves, 
We  know  the  hand  unseen  that  guides 

The  schippe  o'er  stormie  waves  I 


230  HE   STOOn    ALONE. 

We'll  all  still  stand  by  the  old  schippe  as  should  a 

trusty  crew, 
For  He  who  rules  the  wasting  waves  may  some  port 

bring  to  view  ! 

Our  gude  schippe  is  a  shapely  schippe — 

A  shapely  and  a  stronge — 
Our  hearts  sang  to  our  noble  schippe, 

As  she  careered  along  ! 
And  fear  ye  not  my  stui'dy  mates 

Though  sayles  and  masts  be  riven — 
We  know,  while  drifting  o'er  the  deep, 
Above  there's  still  a  haven  ! 
Though  sorely  we're  benighted  upon  the  weltering 

loam, 
The  sun  may  rise  upon  the  morn  and  guide  us  to  a 
home  1 


HE  STOOD   ALONE. 

He  stood  alone  in  an  unpitying  crowd — ■ 
His  mates  fell  from  him,  as  the  grub-worms  drop 
From  the  green  stalk  that  once  had  nourished  them, 
But  now  is  withered  and  all  rottenness 
Because  it  gave  such  shelter.     Pleasure's  train — 
The  light-winged  triUiS  that  seek  thesunshineonly— 
Ko  more  endeavored  from  his  eye  to  win 
'J"he  smile  of  approbation.     Grief  and  Care 
Stalked  forth  upon  the  theatre  of  his  heart, 
III  many  a  gloomy  and  misshapen  guise, 
Till  of  the  glories  of  his  earlier  self 
The  world,  his  base  and  hollow  auditory. 
Left  but  a  ghastly  phantom.     As  a  tree, 
A  goodly  tree — that  stricken  is  and  wasted, 
•  By  elemental  conflicts — falls  at  last. 


Cupid's  banisumente.  231 


Even  in  the  fulness  of  its  branching  honors, 
Prostrate  before  the  storm — yet  majestic 
In  its  huge  downfall,  so,  at  last,  fell  he  1 


CUPID'S   BANISUMENTE. 

What  recke  I  now  of  comely  dame  ? 
What  care  I  now  for  fair  pucelle  ? 

Unscorchde  I  meet  their  glance  of  flame, 
Unmovede  I  mark  their  bosoms  swel, 
For  Love  and  I  have  sayde  farewel  1 

Go,  prattlynge  fool ! — go,  wanton  wilde  ! 
Seke  thy  fond  mother  this  to  tel — 

That  loveliest  maydes  on  me  have  smyled, 
And  that  I  stoutly  did  rebel. 
And  bade  thee  and  thy  arts  farewel ! 

With  me  tliy  tyrant  reigne  is  o'er. 

Thou  hear'st  thy  latest  warninge  knel ; 

Speed,  waywarde  urchin,  from  my  doore,— 
My  hert  to  thee  gives  no  handsel. 
For  thou  and  I  have  sworne  farewel  I 

So  trimme  thy  bow,  and  fleche  thy  shafte, 
And  peer  where  sillie  gallants  dwel, 

On  them  essaye  thy  archer  crafte, 
No  more  on  me  thy  bolte  schal  tel — 
False  Love  and  I  have  sunge  farewel  I 


232  THE   SHIP  OP   THE   DESERT. 


THE    SHIP   OF   THE   DESERT. 

*'  OxwARD,  my  Camel ! — On,  though  slow ; 
Halt  not  upon  these  fatal  sands  ! 
Onward  my  constant  Camel  go — 
The  fierce  Simoom  hath  ceased  to  blow, 
We  soon  shall  tread  green  Syria's  landa  I 

"  Droop  not  my  faithful  Camel !     Now 

The  hospitable  well  is  near ! 
Though  sick  at  heart,  and  worn  in  brow, 
I  grieve  the  most  to  think  that  thou 

And  I  may  part,  kind  comrade,  here  1 

•'  O'er  the  dull  waste  a  swelling  mound — 

A  verdant  paradise — I  see  ; 
The  princely  date-palms  there  abound, 
And  springs  that  make  it  sacred  ground 

To  pilgrims  like  to  thee  and  me  ! " 

The  patient  Camel's  filmy  eye, 

All  lustreless,  is  fixed  in  death ! 
Beneath  the  sun  of  Araby 
The  desert  wanderer  ceased  to  sigh, 
Exhausted  on  its  burning  path. 

Then  rose  upon  the  Wilderness 

The  solitary  Driver's  cry  : 
Thoughts  of  his  home  upon  him  press 
As,  in  his  utter  loneliness, 

He  sees  his  burden-bearer  die. 

Hope  gives  no  echo  to  his  call — 

Ne'er  from  his  comrade  will  he  sever  1 

The  red  sky  is  his  funeral  pall ; 

A  prayer — a  moan — 'tis  over,  all  — 
Camel  and  lord  now  rest  forever  1 


THE  poet's  wish.  233 

A  tbree  hours'  journey  from  the  spring 
Loved  of  the  pantinu  Caravan — 

Within  a  little  sandy  ring — 

The  Camel's  bones  He  whitening, 
With  thine,  old,  unlamented  man! 


THE  POET'S  WISH. 

0  WOULD  that  in  some  wild  and  winding  glen 
Where  human  footstep  ne'er  did  penetrate, 

And  from  the  haunts  of  base  and  selfish  men 
Remote,  in  dreamy  loneness  situate, 

1  had  my  dwelling:  and  within  my  ken 

Nature  disporting  in  fantastic  form — 
Asleep  in  green  repose,  and  thundering  in  the 
storm  ! 

Then  mine  should  be  a  life  of  deep  delight, — 

Rare  undulations  of  ecstatic  musing; 
Thoughts  calm,  yet  ever-varying,  stream  bedight 
With  flowers  immortal  of  quick  Fancy's  choos- 
ing— 
And  like  unto  the  ray  of  tremulous  light. 

Blent   by   the   pale    moon    with   the   entranced 

water, 
I'd  wed  thee.  Solitude,  dear  Nature's  first-bom 
daughter  1 


o 


234  ISABELLB. 


ISABELLE. 


A    SERENADE, 


Hark  !  sweet  Isabelle,  hark  to  my  lute, 

As  softly  it  plaineth  o'er 
The  story  of  one  to  whose  lowly  suit 

Thy  heart  shall  beat  no  more  ! 
List  to  its  tender  plaints,  my  love, 
Sad  as  the  accents  of  saints,  my  love, 

Who  mortal  sin  deplore  ! 

Awake  from  your  slumber,  Isabelle,  wake, 
'Tis  sorrow  that  tunes  these  strings  ; 

A  last  farewell  would  the  minstrel  take 
Of  her  whose  beauty  he  sings : 

The  moon  seems  to  weep  on  her  way,  my  love, 

And,  shrouded  in  clouds,  seem  to  say,  my  love, 
No  hope  with  the  morning  springs ! 

Deep  on  the  breeze  peals  the  hollow  sound 

Of  the  dreary  convent  bell ; 
Its  walls,  ere  a  few  short  hours  wheel  round, 

Will  girdle  my  Isabelle  ! 
They'll  take  thee  away  from  these  arms,  love. 
And  bury  thy  blossoming  charms,  love. 

Where  midnight  requiems  swell. 

At  the  high  altar  I  see  thee  kneel, 
With  pallid  and  awe-struck  face  ; 

I  see  the  veil  those  looks  conceal 
That  shone  with  surpassing  grace — 

The  shade  will  prey  on  thy  bloom,  my  love, 

While  I  shall  wend  to  the  tomb,  my  love, 
And  leave  of  my  name  no  trace. 


WHAT   IS   THIS   WORLD   TO   ME  ?  235 

We  lov'd  and  we  grew,  we  grew  and  we  lov'd, 

Twin  flowers  in  a  dewy  vale  ; 
The  churchman's  cold  hand  hath  one  remov'd, 

The  other  will  soon  wax  pale  : 
O  fast  will  be  its  decline,  my  love, 
As  this  dying  note  of  mine,  my  love, 

Lost  in  the  evening  gale  ! 


WHAT  IS  THTS  WORLD  TO  ME? 

What  is  this  world  to  me  ? 
A  harp  sans  melodie  ; 
A  dream  of  vain  idlesse, 
A  thought  of  bitterness. 
That  grieves  the  aching  brain. 
And  gnaws  the  heart  in  twain  I 

My  spirit  pines  alwaie, 
Like  captive  shut  from  day ; 
Or  like  a  sillie  flower. 
Estranged  from  sun  and  shower— 
Which,  withering,  soon  must  die, 
In  love-lorne  privacie. 

No  joye  my  hearte  doth  finde, 
With  those  they  calle  my  kinde ; 
O  dull  it  is  and  sad. 
To  see  how  men  waxe  bad : 
As  Autumn  leaves  decay, 
So  verteue  fades  away  I 


286  THE   WANDERER. 


TO   A  LADY'S   BONNET. 

Invidious  sliade  !  why  thus  presume, 
O'er  face  so  fair  to  cast  tliy  gloom  ; 
And  hide  from  the  enamored  sight, 
Those  lips  so  sweet  and  eyes  so  bright  ? 
Why  veil  those  blushes  of  the  cheek, 
AVhich  purity  of  soul  bespeak  V 
Why  shroud  that  brow  in  hermit  cell, 
On  which  high  thoughts  serenely  dwell* 
AVhy  cliain  severe  the  clustering  hair, 
That  whilome  shed  a  radiance  rare — 
A  golden  mist — o'er  neck  and  brow, 
Ijike  sunset  over  drifted  snow  ? 

O  kindly  shade,  forever  be 
Between  me  and  love's  witchery  ! 
Forever  be  to  Ellen's  eyes, 
Like  grateful  cloud  in  summer  skies, 
Mellowing  the  fervor  of  the  day  : 
For  should  they  dart  another  ray 
Of  their  enchanting  light  on  me. 
Farewell  the  proud  boast — I  am  free  I 


THE   WANDERER. 

No  face  I  look  upon  doth  greet  me 

With  smile  that  generous  welcome  lends ; 

No  ready  hand,  with  cheerful  glow, 

Is  now  stretched  out,  all  glad,  to  meet  me 

A  chill  distrust  on  every  brow. 

Assures  me  I  have  here  no  friends  1 


THE    WANDERER.  237 

I  «nis3  the  music  of  Iiome  voices, 
The  rushing  of  the  mountain  Hood, 

My  country's  birds  that  biithefy  sung 

In  woodlands  where  green  May  rejoices, 

Discoursing  love  when  life  was  young. 
And  mirthful  ever  was  ray  mood. 

The  breezes  soft  that  fan  my  cheek, 

The  bower  that  shades  the  sun  from  me, 

The  sky  that  spans  this  Southern  shore, 
Do  all  a  different  language  speak 

From  breeze  and  bower  I  loved  of  yore, 
And  sky  that  spans  my  own  countree. 

They  bring  not  health  to  exiled  men — 
Tliey  light  not  up  the  home-bent  eye ; 

No,  piecemeal  wastes  the  way-worn  frame 
That  longs  to  tread  its  native  glen — 

That  trembles  when  it  hears  the  name 
Of  that  land  where  its  fathers  lie  ! 

The  sun  which  shines  seems  not  the  sun 
That  rose  upon  my  native  fields ; 

Majestic  rolls  he  on  his  way, 

A  cloudless  course  hath  he  to  run — 

But  beams  he  with  the  kindly  ray 

He  to  our  Northern  landscape  yields  ^ 

The  moon  that  trembles  in  these  skies, 
Like  to  an  argent  mirror  sheen — 

Ruling  with  mistless  splendor  here — 
Does  she  above  the  mountains  rise, 

And  smile  uj)on  the  waters  clear. 
As  in  my  days  of  youth  I've  seen  ? 

O  beautiful  and  peerless  light. 

That  thou  should'st  seem  unlovely  now, 
That  thou  should'st  fail  to  wake  anew 

Those  looks  of  heartfelt  pure  delight, 


238  SONG. 

"Which  youthful  Fancy  upward  threw, 
While  gazing  on  thy  cold,  pale  brow  1 

But  this  is  not  a  kindred  land, 
Nor  this  the  old  familiar  stream ; 

And  these  are  not  the  fiiends  of  youth — 
O  heartless,  loveless,  seems  this  strand — ■ 

Its  people  lack  the  kindly  ruth, 

The  sootlier  of  life's  turbid  dream  I 

Away  regret !     Here  must  I  die. 

Remote  from  all  my  soul  held  dear — 

My  grave,  upon  an  alien  shore. 
Will  ne'er  attract  the  passer-by 

The  lonely  sleeper  to  deplore — 
No  flower  will  grace  the  stranger's  bier  1 

Winds  of  the  melancholy  night, 

Begin  your  solemn  dirge  and  bland  ! 

The  giant  clouds  are  gathering  fast, 

The  fearful  moon  withdraws  her  light — 

In  mournful  visions  of  the  past. 
Again  I'll  seek  my  native  laud  1 


SONG. 

I  LOOK  on  thee  once  more, — 

I  gaze  on  thee  and  sigh, 
To  think  how  soon  some  hearts  run  o'er 

With  love,  and  then  run  dry. 

I  need  not  marvel  long 

That  love  in  thee  expires. 
For  shallowest  streams  have  loudest  song, 

Most  sjnoke  the  weakest  fires. 


THE   hunter's   well.  '235 

I  deemed  thee  once  sincere, — 
Once  thought  thy  breast  must  be 

A  fountain  gushing  through  the  year 
With  living  love  for  me  ! 

For  so  it  was  with  mine, 

The  well-springs  of  my  soul 
Were  opened  up,  and  streamed  to  thine, 

As  their  appointed  goal. 

And  now  they  wander  on, 

O'er  barren  sands  unblest. 
Since  falsehood  placed  its  seal  upon 

Thy  fair,  but  frozen,  breast  1 


THE  HUNTER'S  WELL. 

Life  of  this  wilderness, 

Pure  gushino;  stream, 
Dear  to  the  Summer 

Is  thy  murmuring ! 
Note  of  the  song-bird. 

Warbling  on  high. 
Ne'er  with  my  spirit  made 

Such  harmony 
As  do  thy  deep  waters. 

O'er  rock,  leaf,  and  flower, 
Bubbling  and  babbling 

The  long  sunny  hour ! 

Tongue  of  this  desert  spot, 
Spelling  sweet  tones. 

To  the  mute  listeners — 
Old  mossy  stones ; 

Who  ranged  these  stones  near 
Thy  silver  rim, 


240  THE  TRUSTING  HEART. 

Guarding  the  temple 
Where  rises  thv  hvmn  ? 

Some  thirst-stricken  Hunter — 
Swarth  priest  of  the  wood, 

Around  tliee  hath  strewn  thera, 
In  fond  gratitude. 

Orb  of  the  green  waste, 

Open  and  clear, 
Friend  of  the  Hunter, 

Loved  of  the  deer  ; 
Brilliantly  breaking 

Beneath  the  blue  sky, 
Gladdening  the  leaflets 

That  tremulous  sigh ; 
Star  of  my  wandering. 

Symbol  of  love, 
Lead  me  to  dream  of 

The  Fountain  above ! 


IT  DEEPLY   WOUNDS  THE  TRUSTING 
HEART. 

It  deeply  wounds  the  trusting  heart 

That  ever  tlirobs  to  good. 
To  know  tliat  by  a  perverse  art 

It  still  is  misconstrued  : 

And  thus  the  beauties  of  the  field, 

The  glories  of  the  sky. 
To  lofty  natures  often  yield 

Sole  solace  ere  they  die. 

The  things  that  harmless  couch  on  earth, 
Or  pierce  the  blue  of  heaven. 

Have  mystic  reasons  in  their  birth 
Wliy  they  should  be  sin-shriven. 


THE   ETTIX   O'   SILLARWOOD.  241 

The  secrets  of  the  human  breast 

No  human  eye  may  scan  ; 
AVith  Him  alone  those  secrets  rest 

Who  made  and  judgeth  man. 

Nor  lightly  should  we  estimate 

The  Hand  which  rules  it  so, 
Nor  idly  seek  to  penetrate 

What  angels  may  not  know. 

Enough  that  with  a  righteous  will, 

In  this  disjointed  scene, 
The  upright  one,  through  good  and  ill, 

Will  be  as  he  hath  been. 

And  should  a  ribald  multitude 

Repay  with  hate  his  love, 
He  still  can  smile  :  man's  ways  are  ■\iewed 

By  Him  who  rules  above. 


THE   ETTIN   O'   SH.LARWOOD, 

•*  O,  SiLLARWOOD  !  sweet  Sillarwood, 
Gin  Sillarwood  were  mine, 

I'd  big  a  bouir  in  Sillarwood 
And  theik  it  ower  wi'  thyme ; 

At  ilka  door,  and  ilka  bore, 

The  red,  red  rose,  wud  shine ! " 

It's  up  and  sang  the  bonnie  bird. 
Upon  her  milk-white  hand — 
"  I  wudiia  lig  in  Sillarwood, 
For  all  a  gude  Earl's  land  ; 
I  wadna  sing  in  Sillarwood, 
Tho'  jiowden  glist  ilk  wand! 
IG 


242  THE   ETTIN   O'   SILLARWOOD. 

"  The  wild  boar  rakes  in  Sillarwood, 
The  buck  drives  thro'  the  shaw, 
And  simmer  woos  the  Southern  wind 
Thro'  Sillarwood  to  blaw. 

"  Thro'  Sillarwood,  sweet  Sillarwood, 
The  deer  hounds  run  so  free  ; 
But  the  hunter  stark  of  Sillarwood 
An  Ettin  lang  is  he  ! " 

"  O,  Sillarwood  !  sweet  Sillarwood," 

Fair  Marjorie  did  sing, 
"  On  the  tallest  tree  in  Sillarwood, 

That  Ettin  lang  will  hinor !" 

The  Southern  wind  it  blaws  fu'  saft, 

And  Sillarwood  is  near ; 
Fair  Marjorie's  sang  in  Sillarwood, 

The  stark  hunter  did  hear. 

He  band  his  deer  hounds  in  their  leash, 
Set  his  bow  against  a  tree. 

And  three  blasts  on  his  horn  has  brocht 
The  wood  elf  to  his  knee. 

"  Gae  bring  to  me  a  shapely  weed, 

Of  silver  and  of  gold, 
Gae  bring  to  me  as  stark  a  steed, 

As  ever  stepped  on  mold  ; 
For  I  maun  ride  frae  Sillarwood 

This  fair  maid  to  behold  !  " 

The  wood  elf  tw^sted  sunbeams  red 

Into  a  shapely  weed. 
And  the  tallest  birk  in  Sillarwood 

He  hewed  into  a  steed  ; 
And  shod  it  wi'  the  burning  gold 

To  glance  like  ony  glede. 


THE   ETTIN   O'   SILLARWOOD.  243 

The  Ettin  shook  his  bridle  reins 

And  merrily  they  rung, 
For  four  and  twenty  sillar  bells 

On  ilka  side  were  hung. 

The  Ettin  rade,  and  better  rade, 

Some  thretty  miles  and  three, 
A  buolc  horn  hung  at  his  breast, 

A  lang  sword  at  his  knee ; 
"  I  wud  I  met,"  said  the  Ettin  lang, 

"  The  maiden  Marjorie !  " 

The  Ettin  rade,  and  better  rade, 

Till  he  has  reached  her  bouir. 
And  there  he  saw  fair  Marjorie 

As  brifht  as  lily  flouir. 

**  O  Sillarwood  ! — Sweet  Sillarwood  I— 
Gin  Sillarwood  were  mine, 
The  sleuthest  hawk  o'  Sillarwood 
On  dainty  flesh  wud  dine  !  " 

"  Weel  met,  weel  met,"  the  Ettin  said, 
"  For  ae  kiss  o'  that  hand, 
I  wud  na  grudge  my  kist  o'  gold 
And  forty  fees  o'  land  ! 

"  Weel  met,  weel  met,"  the  Ettin  said, 
"  For  ac  kiss  o'  that  cheek, 
I'll  big  a  bower  wi'  precious  stanes, 
The  red  gold  sal  it  theik  : 


o 


"  Weel  met,  weel  met,"  the  Ettin  said, 
"  For  ae  kiss  o'  tiiy  chin, 
I'll  welcome  tliee  to  Sillarwood 
And  a'  that  crows  therein  ! " 


to' 


'  If  ye  may  leese  me  Sillarwood 
Wi'  a'  that  grows  therein, 


244  THE    ETTIX    O'   SILLAKWOOD. 

Ye're  free  to  kiss  my  cheek,"  she  said, 
"  Ye're  free  to  kiss  my  chin — 

The  Knicht  that  hechts  me  Sillarwocd 
My  maiden  thocht  sal  win  ! 

"  My  luve  I've  laid  on  Sillarwood — 
Its  bonnie  aiken  tree — 
And  gin  that  I  hae  Siilarwood 
I'll  link  alang  wi'  thee  !  " 

* 

Then  on  she  put  her  green  mantel 

Weel  furred  wi'  minivere  : 

Then  on  she  put  her  velvet  shoon, 

The  silver  shining  clear. 

She  proudly  vaulted  on  the  black — 
He  bounded  on  the  bay — 

The  stateliest  pair  that  ever  took 
To  Sillarwood  their  way ! 

It's  up  and  sang  the  gentil  bird 
On  Mai-jorie's  fair  hand — 
"  I  wudna  wend  to  Sillarwood 
For  a'  its  timbered  land — 

Nor  wud  I  lig  in  Sillarwood 
Tho'  gowden  glist  ilk  wand  ! 

"  The  Hunters  chace  thro'  Sillarwood 
The  playfu'  herte  and  rae  ; 
Nae  maiden  that  socht  Sillarwood 
E'er  back  was  seen  to  gae  ! " 

The  Ettin  leuch,  the  Ettin  sang, 
He  whistled  merrilie, 
"  If  sic  a  bird,"  he  said,  "  were  mine, 
I'd  hing  it  on  a  tree." 

"  W<'re  I  the  Lady  Marjorie, 
Thou  hunter  fiur  but  free, 


THE   ETTIN   O'   SILLARWOOD.  245 

My  horse's  head  I'd  turn  about, 
And  think  nae  mair  o'  thee  ! " 

It's  on  they  rade,  and  better  rade, 

They  shimmered  in  the  sun — 
'Twas  sick  and  sair  grew  ^Marjorie 

Lang  ere  that  ride  was  done  ! 

Yet  on  they  rade,  and  better  rade, 
They  neared  the  Cross  o'  stane — 

The  tall  Knicht  when  he  passed  it  by 
Felt  cauld  in  every  bane. 

But  on  they  rade,  and  better  rade, 

It  evir  grew  mair  mirk, 
O  loud,  loud  nichered  the  bay  steed 

As  they  passed  Mary's  Kirk ! 

"  I'm  wearie  o'  this  eerie  road," 

Maid  Marjorie  did  say — 
"  We  canna  weel  greet  Sillarwood 

Afore  the  set  o'  day ! " 

"  It's  no  the  sinkin'  o'  the  sun 

That  gloamins  sae  the  ground, 
The  heicht  it  is  o'  Sillarwood 
That  shadows  a'  around." 

"  Methocht,  Sir  Knicht,  broad  Sillarwood 

A  pleasant  bield  wud  be. 
With  nuts  on  ilka  hazel  bush, 

And  birds  on  ilka  tree — 
But  oh  !  the  dimness  o'  this  wood 

Is  terrible  to  me  !  " 

"  The  trees,  ye  see,  seem  wondrous  big, 
The  branches  wondrous  braid, 
Then  marvel  nae  if  sad  suld  be 
The  path  we  hae  to  tread  1" 


246  THE   ETTIN   o'   SILLARWOOD. 

Tliick  {jrew  the  air,  thick  grew  the  trees, 
Thick  hunjr  the  leaves  around, 

And  deeper  did  the  Ettin's  voice 
In  the  dread  dimness  sound — 
**  I  think,"  said  Maiden  Marjorie, 
'•I  hear  a  horn  and  hound  1" 

"  Ye  weel  may  hear  the  hound,"  he  said, 
"  Ye  weel  may  hear  the  horn, 
JFor  I  can  hear  the  wild  halloo 
That  freichts  the  face  o'  Morn ! 

"  The  Hunters  fell  o'  Sillarwood 
Hae  packs  full  fifty-three : 
They  hunt  all  day,  they  hunt  all  nicht. 
They  never  bow  an  ee  : 

«  The  Hunters  fell  o'  Sillarwood 
Hae  steeds  but  blude  or  bane : 
They  bear  fiert  maidens  to  a  weird 
Where  mercy  there  is  nane  ! 

"  And  I  the  Laird  o'  Sillarwood 
Hae  beds  baith  deep  and  wide, 
(Of  clay-cauld  earth)  whereon  to  streik 
A  proud  and  dainty  bride  ! 

"  Ho  !  look  beside  yon  bonny  birk — 
The  latest  blink  of  day 
Is  frleamin'  on  a  comely  heap 
Of  fresiily  dug  red  clay  ; 

"  llicht  cunninjif  hands  they  were  that  digged 
Forenent  the  birken  tree 
Where  every  leaf  that  draps,  frore  maid, 

Will  piece  a  shroud  for  thee — 
It's  they  can  lie  on  lily  breist 
As  they  can  lie  on  lea  1 


LIKE  A  WORN  GRAY-HAIRED  MARINER.    247 

"  And  they  will  hap  thy  lily  breist 
Till  flesh  fa's  aff  the  bane— _ 
Nor  tell  thy  freres  how  Marjorie 
To  SUlarwood  hath  gane  ! 

"  The  bed  is  strewed,  Maid  Marjorie, 

Wi'  bracken  and  wi'  brier, 
And  ne'er  Avill  gray  cock  clarion  wind 

For  ane  that  slumbers  here — 
Ye  wedded  have  the  Ettin  stark — 

He  I'ules  the  Realms  of  Fear  I " 


LIKE  A  WORN  GRAY-HAIRED  MARINER. 

Like  a  worn  gray-haired  mariner  whom  the  sea 
Hath  wrecked,  then  flung  in  mockery  ashore, 
To  clamber  some  gaunt  cliff,  and  list  the  roar 

Of  wave  pursuing  wave  unceasingly  ; 
His  native  land,  dear  home,  and  toil-won  store 

Inexorably  severed  from  his  sight ; 
His  sole  companions  Hopelessness  and  Grief — 

Who  feels  his  day  will  soon  be  mirkest  night — 
Who  from  its  close  alone  expects  relief- 
Praying  life's  sands,  in  pity,  to  descend 
And  rid  him  of  life's  burden, — So  do  I 
Gaze  on  the  world,  and  time  fast  surging  by. 

Drifting  away  each  hope  with  each  tried  friend-— 
Leaving  behind  a  waste  where  desolate  I  may  die. 


248  EXVIE. 


THE  LAY    OF   GEOFFROT  RUDEL. 

With  faltering  step  would  I  depart, 
From  home  and  friend  that  claimed  my  heart-' 
And  the  bis  tear  would  dim  mine  eve, 
Fixed  on  the  scenes  of  early  years, 
(Each  spot  some  pleasure  past  endears) 
And  I  would  minjrle  with  a  sijih 
The  accents  of  the  farewell  lay — 
But  for  my  love  that's  far  away  1 

Friends  and  dear  native  land,  adieu  ! 
In  hope  we  part — no  teai"s  bedew 
My  cheek — no  dark  regrets  alloy 
The  buoyant  feelings  of  the  hour 
That  leads  me  to  my  ladye's  bower — 
My  breast  throbs  with  a  wondrous  joy, 
^\'hile  every  life-pulse  seems  to  say — 
"  Haste  to  thy  love  that's  far  away  !" 


ENVIE. 

Ane  plante  there  is  of  the  deidliest  pouir 
Quhilk  flourischis  deeply  in  the  hert ; 

Its  lang  rutis  creip  and  fald  outoure 
Ilka  vive  and  breathen  part: 

Lustilie  bourgenis  the  weid  anon 

Till  hert  hath  rottit  and  lyf  hath  flown. 

Blak  is  the  sap  of  its  baleful  stem, 
Lyk  funeral  bHcht  its  leavis  do  fal ; 

In  its  moistoure  is  quenchit  luve's  pure  flame, 
It  drappis  rust  on  inmost  saul : 

Lustilie  bourgenis  the  weid  anon, 

Till  hert  hath  rottit  and  lyf  hath  flown. 


24S 


Evir  it  flourlschls  meikel  and  hie, 

Nae  stay,  nae  hindraunee  will  it  bruik; 

In  ae  niclit  spryngiiig  up,  a  burdlietree, 
Schedding  its  bale  at  ae  single  luik  : 

Lustilie  bourgenis  the  weld  anon. 

Till  hert  hath  rottit  and  lyf  hath  flown. 

It  canna  be  kythit  to  the  gudely  sun, 
It  pynyth  sae  at  his  nobil  sicht ; 

It  shrinkyth  quyte  like  a  thing  undone 
Quhan  luikit  on  by  the  blessit  licht : 

In  hert  whence  heevinlie  luve  hath  gone 

Thilke  evil  weid  aye  bourgenis  on. 

Fell  En\4e's  th'  plant  of  mortal  pouir 
Quhilk  flourischis  grenelye  in  the  hert — 

Raining  the  slawe  and  poisonous  shouir 
Quhilk  cankereth  the  vertuous  part : 

Black  Envie  wherever  Its  seed  is  sawin. 

Fashion  is  a  hert  like  the  foul  Fiend's  awin ! 


LOVE'S   TOKENS. 

Love's  herald  is  not  speech — 

His  fear-fraught  tongue  is  mute- 
His  presence  is  bewrayed 

By  blushes  deep  that  shoot 
Athwart  the  conscious  brow, 

And  mantle  on  the  cheek, 
Then  fleet  for  tints  of  snow 

Which  soft  confusion  speak  ; 
Thus  red  and  white  have  place 
By  turns  on  true  love's  face. 

Love  vaunteth  not  his  worth 
In  gaudy,  glozing  phrase, 


250      O  SAY  NOT  PURE  AFFECTIONS  CHANGE. 

His  home  is  not  in  breast 

Where  thought  of  worldling  stays  ; 
In  modest  loyaltie 

His  fountain  doth  abide  ; 
In  bosom  greatly  good 

The  lucid  pulses  tide 
That  ebb  and  flow  there  ever, 
Till  soul  and  body  sever. 

Trust  not  the  ready  lip 

Whence  flows  the  fulsome  song — 
True  love  aye  gently  hymns, 

False  love  chants  loud  and  long. 
Young  Beauty,  cherish  well 

The  bashful,  anxious  eye, 
The  lip  that  may  not  move. 

The  breast  that  stills  the  sigh — 
A  recreant  to  thee 
Their  lord  will  never  be ! 


O    SAY    NOT    PURE    AFFECTIONS 
CHANGE ! 

O  SAY  not  pure  affections  change 
When  fixed  they  once  have  been, 

Or  that  between  two  noble  hearts 
Hate  e'er  can  intervene  ! 

Though  coldness  for  a  while  may  freeze 
The  love-springs  of  the  soul, 

Though  angry  pride  its  sympathies 
May  for  a  time  control. 

Yet  such  estrangement  cannot  last — 

A  tone,  a  touch,  a  look. 
Dissolves  at  once  the  iciness 

That  crisp'd  affection's  brook  : 


THE   ROSE   AND   THE   FAIR   LILYE.  251 

Again  they  feel  the  genial  glow 

Within  the  bosom  burn, 
And  all  their  pent-up  tenderness 

With  tenfold  force  return  ! 


THE    ROSE   AND   THE   FAIR    LILYE 

The  Earlsburn  Glen  is  gay  and  green, 

The  Earlsburn  water  cleir, 
And  blythely  blunie  on  Earlsburn  bank 

The  broom  and  eke  the  brier ! 

Twa  Sisters  gaed  up  Earlsburn  glen — 
Twa  maidens  bricht  o'  blee — 

The  tane  she  was  the  Rose  sae  red, 
The  tither  the  Fair  Lilye  ! 

"  Ye  mauna  droop  and  dwyne,  Sister" — 

Said  Rose  to  fair  Lilye — 
"  Yer  heart  ye  mauna  brek,  Sister — 

For  ane  that's  ower  the  sea : 

"  The  vows  we  sillie  maidens  hear 
Frae  wild  and  wilfu'  man, 
Are  as  the  words  the  waves  wash  out 
When  traced  upon  the  san' ! " 

"  I  mauna  think  yer  speech  is  sooth," 

Saft  answered  the  Lilye — 
"  I  winna  dout  mine  ain  gude  Knicht 

Tho'  he's  ayont  the  sea  1 " 

Then  scornfully  the  Rose  sae  red 
Spake  to  the  pure  Lilye — 
"  The  vows  he  feigned  at  thy  bouir  door, 
He  plicht  in  mine  to  me  !  " 


252  YOUXG  LOVE. 

"  I'll  hame  and  spread  the  sheets,  Sister, 
And  decTc  my  bed  sae  hie — 
The  bed  sae  wide  made  for  a  bride, 
For  I  think  I  sune  sal  die ! 

"  Your  wierd  I  sal  na  be,  Sister, 
As  mine  I  fear  ye've  bin — 
Your  luve  I  wil  na  cross,  Sister, 
It  were  a  mortal  sin  !  " 

Earlsburn  Glen  is  green  to  see, 

Earlsburn  water  cleir — 
Of  the  siller  birk  in  Earlsburn  Wood 

They  framit  the  Maiden's  bier ! 

There's  a  lonely  dame  in  a  gudely  bouir, 

She  nevir  lifts  an  ee — 
That  dame  was  ance  the  Rose  sae  red. 

She  is  now  a  pale  Lilye. 

A  Knicht  aft  looks  frae  his  turret  tall. 

Where  the  kirk-yaird  grass  grows  green  ; 

He  wonne  the  weed  and  lost  the  flouir, 
And  grief  ave  dims  his  een  : 


o 


At  noon  of  nicht,  in  the  moonshine  bricht, 
The  warrior  kneels  in  prayer — 

He  prays  wi'  his  face  to  the  auld  kirk-yaird, 
And  wishes  he  were  there  I 


YOUNG  LOVE. 

It  seems  a  dream  the  infant  love 
That  tamed  my  truant  will, 

But  'twas  a  dream  of  happiness. 
And  I  regret  it  still ! 


TO    THE   TEMPEST.  253 

Its  images  are  part  of  me, 

A  very  part  ot"  mind — 
Feelings  and  fancies  beautiful 

In  purity  combined  ! 

Time's  sunset  lends  a  tenderer  tinge 

To  what  those  feelings  were, 
Like  the  cloud-mellow'd  radiance 

Which  evening  landscapes  bear  : 

They  wedded  are  unto  my  soul, 

As  light  is  blent  with  heat, 
Or  cOS  the  hallowed  confluence 

Of  air  with  odors  sweet. 

Though  she,  the  spirit  of  that  dream, 

Lacks  of  the  loveliness 
Young  fancy  robed  her  in,  yet  I 

May  hardly  love  her  less  : 

Even  when  as  in  my  boyish  time 

I  nestled  by  her  side, 
Her  ever  gentle  impulses 

Thorrow  mv  beinof  slide  ! 


TO   THE   TEMPEST. 

CiiAXT  on,  ye  stormy  voices,  loud  and  shrill 
Your  wild  tumultuous  melody — strip 
The  forest  of  its  clothing — leave  it  bare. 
As  a  deserted  and  world-tramplud  Ibundling  ! 
Lash  on,  ye  rains,  and  pour  your  tide  of  might 
Unceasingly  and  strong,  and  blench  the  Earth's 
Green  mantle  with  your  floods :  Suddenly  swell 
The  brawling  torrent  In  the  sleep-locked  night. 
That  it  may  deluge  the  subjacent  plain, 
And  spread  destruction  where  security 


251      GOE   CLEED   \Vl'   SMYLIS   THE   CHEEK. 

Had  fondly  built  Its  faith,  and  knelt  before 
The  altar  of  its  refuge — Sweep  ye  down 
Palace  and  mansion,  hall  and  lofty  tower, 
And  creeping  shed,  into  one  common  grave 

Ye  linrhtninss  that  are  flashincr  fitfully — • 

(Heaven's  messengers)  askant  the  lurid  sky, 

Burst  forth  in  one  vast  sheet  of  whelming  fire — 

Pass  through  the  furnace  the  base  lords  of  earth, 

With  subtile  fury  inextinguishable — 

'i'hat,  purified,  they  may  again  appear 

As  erst  they  were,  free  of  soul-searing  sin 

And  worldly-mindedness  !     For  mailed  they  be, 

Obdurate  all,  in  selfish  adamant. 

So  riveted,  that  it  would  need  a  fire 

Potential  as  the  ever-burning  pit, 

To  overcome  and  rtielt  it,  so  that  hearts 

Might  beat  and  spirits  move  to  chords  sublime. 

Tuned  by  the  hand  of  the  Omnipotent, 

As  when  man,  from  His  Hands,  in  His  beauty  came 


GOE   CLEED   WP   SMYLIS  THE   CHEEK  1 

GoE  deed  wi'  smylis  the  cheek, 

Goe  fill  wi'  licht  the  eye — 
O  vain  when  sorrows  seek 

The  fontis  of  bliss  to  drie  ! 

Quhan  Hope  hath  pyned  away, 

Quhan  carkc  and  care  haif  sprung, 
Quhan  hcrt  hatli  faun  a  prey 

To  grief  that  hed  nae  tongue  ; 
O  then  it  is  nae  tyme 

To  feinzie  quhat  we  fele, 
Or  wi'  ane  merrie  chime. 

To  droun  the  solemne  peal 


OOE   CLEED   Wl'   SMYLIS   THE  "CHEEK.      255 

Quliilk  ringis  dreir  and  dul, 
Quhan  hert  and  eyne  ar  ful. 

Nae  joy  is  thair  for  me 

In  lyf  againe  to  knovve — 
Nae  plesuir  can  I  see 

In  its  tals  and  fleetingc  sehewl— 
Lyk  wyld  and  t'earfid  waste 

Of  wavis  and  bollen  sand, 
Apperis  the  path  I've  tracit 

Inwith  my  natif  land  : 
Fra  it  I  must  depairt, 
And  fra  al  quliilk  lied  niie  hert. 

Fareweil  to  kith  and  kin, 

Farewell  to  hive  untrew, 
Fareweil  to  burn  and  lin, 

Fareweil  to  lift  sua  blew — 
Fareweil  to  banek  and  brae, 

Fareweil  to  sang  and  glee — 
Fareweil  to  pastyme  gay, 

Quhilk  ance  delytit  me — 
Fareweil  thou  sunny  strand, 
Fareweil  ance  kinde  Scotland  ! 

Fresch  flouirs  beare  mie  frend, 

Unto  mie  earlie  graive, 
Thair  bill  tlu-in  nevir  dwyne, 

But  ower  mie  headstane  waive ; 
Perchance  to  same  they'll  wake 

Remembrance  o'  mie  dome — 
And  thougli  fading,  they  maye  make 

Less  lonesum-lyk  mie  tombe — 
Sins  they  will  emblems  be 
Of  thy  luvinge  sympathye. 

Now  fareweil  day's  dear  licht — 

Now  fareweil  frend  and  fae — 
Hail  to  the  starrie  nicht, 

Whair  travailit  said  maun  gae  I 


256      I  MET  *Wl'  HER   I   LUVED    YESTREEN. 


THE  POET'S  DESTINY. 

Dark  is  the  soul  of  the  Minstrel — 

Wayward  the  flash  of  his  eye ; 
The  voice  of  the  proud  is  against  him, 

The  rude  sons  of  earth  pass  him  by. 

Low  is  the  grave  of  the  Minstrel — 
Ungraced  by  the  chisel  of  art ; 

Yet  his  name  will  be  blazoned  forever 
On  the  best  of  all  'scutcheons — the  heart! 

Strong  is  the  soul  of  the  Minstrel — 
He  rules  in  a  realm  of  his  own ; 

His  world  is  peopled  by  fancies 
The  noblest  tha,t  ever  were  known. 

Light  is  the  rest  of  the  Minstrel, 
Though  heavy  his  lot  upon  earth ; 

From  the  sward  that  lies  over  his  ashes 
Spring  plants  of  a  heavenly  birth ! 


I  MET  WI'  HER  I  LUVED  YESTREEN, 

1  MET  wi'  her  I  luved  yestreen, 

I  met  her  wi'  a  look  o'  soiTOw  ; 
My  leave  I  took  o'  her  for  aye, 

A  weddit  bride  she'll  be  the  morrow  1 

She  durst  na  gie  ae  smile  to  me. 
Nor  drap  ae  word  o'  kindly  feelin', 

Yet  down  her  cheeks  the  bitter  tears. 
In  monie  a  pearly  bead,  were  stealiu*. 


TO    niV   I.ADY   OF   MY   HEART.  25' 

I  could  na  my  lost  luve  upbraid, 

Altho'  my  dearest  hopes  were  blighted, 

I  could  na  say — "  ye're  fause  to  me  !  " — 
Tho'  to  anither  she  was  plighted. 

Like  suthfast  friens  whom  death  divides, 
In  Heaven  to  meet,  we  silent  parted; 

Nae  voice  had  we  our  griefs  to  speak, 
We  felt  sae  lone  and  broken-hearted. 

I'll  hie  me  frae  my  native  Ian', 

Far  frae  thy  blythesome  banks  o'  Yanow ! 
Wae's  me,  I  canna  bide  to  see 

My  winsume  luve  anither's  marrow  1 

I'll  hie  me  to  a  distant  Ian', 

Wi'  downcast  ee  and  life-sick  bosom, 
A  weary  waste  the  warld's  to  me, 

Sin'  I  hae  lost  that  bonnie  blossom  I 


TO  THE  LADY  OF  MY  HEART. 

They  oft  have  told  me  that  deceit 
Lies  hid  in  dimpled  smiles. 

But  eyes  so  chaste  and  lips  so  sweet 
Conceal  not  wanton  wiles  ! 

I'll  trust  thee,  lady  ! — To  deceive. 

Or  guileful  tale  to  speak. 
Was  never  fashioned  1  believe 

The  beauty  of  thy  cheek ! 

Yes,  I  will  trust  the  azure  eye 
That  thrilled  me  with  dehght, 

The  loving  load-star  of  a  sky 
Which  erst  was  darkest  night. 
17 


258  THE    PAUSE    LADYE. 

Ever,  dear  maid,  in  weal  or  woe, 
In  gladness  and  in  sorrow. 

Hand  clasped  in  hand,  we'll  forward  go, 
Both  eventide  and  morrow  ! 


THE   PAUSE   LADYE. 

"  The  water  weets  my  toe,"  she  said, 
"  The  water  weets  my  knee  ; 
Hand  up.  Sir  Knicht,  my  horse's  head, 
If  you  a  true  hive  be  !  " 

"  I  luved  ye  weel,  and  luved  ye  lang, 
Yet  grace  I  failed  to  win  ; 
Nae  trust  put  I  in  ladye's  troth 
Till  water  weets  her  chin  !  " 

"  Then  water  weets  my  waist,  proud  lord. 

The  water  weets  my  chin  ; 
My  achin'  head  spins  round  about. 

The  burn  maks  sik  a  din — 
Now,  help  thou  me,  thou  fearsome  Knicht, 

If  grace  ye  hope  to  win  1 " 

"  I  mercy  hope  to  win,  high  dame, 
Yet  hand  I've  nane  to  gie — 
The  trinklin'  o'  a  gallant's  blude 
Sae  sair  hath  blindit  me  !  " 

«  Oh  !  help  !— Oh  !  help  !— If  man  >e  be 
Have  on  a  woman  ruth — 
The  waters  gather  round  my  head 
And  gurgle  in  my  mouth  I " 

"  Turn  round  and  round,  fell  Margaiet, 
Turn  round  and  look  on  me — 


MY    AIN    COUNTRIE.  259 

The  pity  that  ye  schawed  yestreen 
I'll  fairly  schaw  to  thee  ' 

"  Thy  girdle-knife  was  keen  and  bricht — 
The  ribbons  wondrous  fine — 
'Tween  every  knot  o'  them  ye  knit 
Of  kisses  I  had  nine ! 

"  Fond  Margaret !  Fause  Margaret  ! 
You  kissed  nie  cheek  and  chin — 
Yet,  when  I  slept,  that  girdle-knife 
You  sheathed  my  heart's  blude  in  ! 

'♦  Fause  Margaret !  Lewde  Margaret ! 
The  nicht  ye  bide  wi'  me — 
The  body,  under  trust,  you  slew, 
My  spirit  weds  wi'  thee  !  " 


MY  AIN  COUNTRIE. 

Ye  bonnie  haughs  and  heather  braes 
Whair  I  hae  daft  youth's  gladsome  days. 
A  dream  o'  by-gane  bliss  ye  be 
That  gars  me  sigh  for  my  ain  countrie  ! 

Lang  dwinin'  in  a  fremit  land 

Doth  feckless  mak'  baith  heart  and  hand, 

And  starts  the  tear-drap  to  the  ee 

That  aye  was  bricht  in  the  auld  countrie. 

Tho'  Carron  Brig  be  gray  and  worn, 
AVhere  I  and  my  forebears  were  bom, 
Y''et  dearer  is  its  time-touched  stone 
Than  the  halls  of  pride  I  now  look  on. 


260  TO    A    FRIEND    AT    PARTING. 

As  music  to  the  lingeriu'  ear 
Were  Carron's  waters  croonin'  clear  ; 
They  call  to  hie,  -where'er  I  roam, 
The  voices  o'  my  long-lost  home ! 

And  gin  I  were  a  wee  wee  bird, 
Adown  to  licht  at  Randie  Ford, 
In  Kirk  O'Muir  I'd  close  mine  ee, 
And  fald  my  wings  in  mine  ain  countrie  I 


TO  A  FRIEND  AT  PARTING* 

Farewell,  my  friend  ! — Perchance  again 
I'll  clasp  thee  to  a  faithful  heart — 

Farewell  my  friend  ! — We  part  in  pain, 
Yet  we  must  part ! 

Were  this  memento  to  declare 

All  that  the  inward  moods  portray, 

Dark  boding  grief  were  pictured  there, 
And  wild  dismay  ! 

For  thee,  my  fancy  paints  a  scene 
Of  peace  on  lil'e's  remoter  shore — 

Thy  wishes  long  fulfilled  have  been, 
Or  even  more : 

And  when  success  hath  crowned  thy  toil. 
And  hope  hath  raised  thy  heart  to  Heaven- 

Thou  well  mayst  love  the  generous  soil 
Where  love  was  given. 


•  The  "  Friend  at  Parting"  wa«  Mr.  Robert  Peacock,  at  presenl 
(July,  1848)  resiJent,  I  believe,  in  Germany.— K. 


TO    A    FRIEND    AT   PARTIXG.  261 

For  me,  my  friend,  I  fear  there's  naught, 

In  dim  futurity,  of  gladness ; 
There  ever  rises  on  ray  thought 

A  dream  of  sadness  : 

Yet  gazing  upon  guileless  faces. 

Sunned  by  the  light  of  laughing  eyes, 

I  recreant  were  to  own  no  traces 
Of  social  ties. 

Even  I  may  borrow  from  another 
The  smile  I  fain  would  call  my  own, 

Striving,  with  childish  art,  to  smother 
The  care  unknown. 

Farewell !  Farewell ! — All  good  attend  thee-* 
At  home,  abroad — on  land,  or  sea — 

That  Heaven  may  evermore  befriend  thee. 
My  prayer  shall  be  ! 

Should  a  dark  thought  of  him  arise 
Whose  parting  hand  thou  must  resign, 

Let  it  go  forth  to  stormy  skies, 
Not  tarnish  thine  : 

Never  may  Melancholy's  brood 

Disturb  the  fountain  of  thy  joy, 
Nor  dusky  Passion's  fitful  mood 

Thy  peace  alloy  1 

•'  Up,  anchor  !  up  !  " — The  mariner 

Thus  hymn?  to  the  inconstant  wind — ■ 
Heave  not  one  sigh,  where'er  you  steer, 
For  me  behind  ! 


262  soxG. 


I  PLUCKED  THE  BERRY. 

I've  plucked  the  berry  from  the  bush,  the  brown 

nut  from  the  tree, 
But  heart  of  happy  little  bird  ne'er  broken  was  by 

me ; 
I  saw  them  in  their  curious  nests,  close  couching, 

slyly  peer 
With  their  wild  eyes,  like  glittering  beads,  to  note 

if  harm  were  near  : 
I  passed  them  by,  and  blessed  them  all  ;  I  felt  that 

it  Avas  good 
To  leave  unmoved  the  creatures  small  whose  home 

is  in  the  wood. 

And  here,  even  now,  above  my  head,  a  lusty  rogue 

doth  sing. 
He  pecks  his  swelling  breast  and  neck,  and  trims 

his  little  wing. 
He  will  not  Hy  ;  he  knows  full  well,  while  chirping 

on  that  spray, 
I  would  not  harm  him  for  a  world,  or  interrupt  his 

lay  : 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  blithe  bird  !   and  fill  my  heart 

with  summer  gladness. 
It  has  been  aching  many  a  day  with  measures  full 

of  sadness  ! 


SONG. 

O  LICHT,  licht  was  maid  Ellen's  fit — 

It  left  nae  print  behind, 
Until  a  belted  Knicht  she  saw 

Adown  the  valley  wind  ! 


TO     *     *     *     *  263 

And  winsome  was  maid  Ellen's  cheek, 

As  is  the  rose  on  brier, 
Till  halted  at  her  father's  yett 

A  lordly  cavalier. 

And  merrie,  merrie  was  her  sang, 

Till  he  knelt  at  her  bouir — 
As  lark's  rejoicin'  in  the  sun. 

Her  princely  paramour. 

But  dull,  dull  now  is  Ellen's  eye, 

And  wan,  wan  is  her  cheek. 
And  slow  an'  heavy  is  her  fit, 

That  lonesome  paths  would  seek : 

And  never  sang  does  Ellen  sing 

Amang  the  flowers  sae  bricht. 
Since  last  she  saw  the  dancin'  plume 

Of  that  foresworne  Knicht ! 


TO     *     *     *     * 

I  NEVER  dreamed  that  lips  so  sweet, 
That  eyes  of  such  a  heavenly  hue, 

Were  framed  for  falsehood  and  deceit. 

Would  prove,  as  they  have  proved — untrue. 

Methought  if  love  on  earth  e'er  shone, 
'Twas  in  the  temple  of  thine  eyes, 

And  if  truth's  accents  e'er  were  known, 
'Twas  in  the  music  of  thy  sighs. 

Has  then  thy  love  been  all  a  show, 
Thy  plighted  truth  an  acted  part — 

Did  no  afi'ection  ever  glow 
In  the  chill  region  of  that  heart  ? 


264  THE   knight's   requiem. 

And  could'st  thou  seem  to  me  to  clinj» 
Like  tenilril  of  the  clasping  vine, 

Yet  all  prove  vain  imagining, 

Thy  soul  yield  no  response  to  mine  ? 

It  has  been  so — so  let  it  be — 

Rejoice,  thou  false  one,  in  thy  guile, 

Others,  perhaps,  may  censure  thee, 
I  would  not  dim  thy  fickle  smile. 

Farewell !— In  kindness  I  would  part, 
As  once  I  deemed  in  love  we  met — 

Farewell ! — This  wrong'd  and  bleeding  heart 
Can  thee  Forgive,  but  not  Forget  I 


THE  KNIGHT'S  REQUIEM. 

They  have  waked  the  knight  so  meikle  of  migbt. 

They  have  cased  his  corpse  in  oak ; 
There  was  not  an  ej'e  that  then  was  dry, 

There  was  not  a  tongue  that  spoke. 
The  stout  and  the  true  lay  stretched  in  view. 

Pale  and  cold  as  the  marble  stone  ; 
And  the  voice  was  still  that  like  trumpet  shrill, 

Had  to  glory  led  them  on  ; 
And  the  deadly  hand  whose  battle  brand 

Mowed  down  the  reeling  foe, 
Was  laid  at  rest  on  the  manly  breast, 

That  never  more  mought  glow. 

With  book,  and  bell,  and  waxen  light. 

The  mass  lor  the  dead  is  sung ; 
Thorough  the  night  in  the  turret's  height. 

The  great  church-bells  are  rung. 


THE  knight's  requiem.  265 

Oh  woe  !  oh  woe  !  for  those  that  go 

From  lijrlit  of  life  away, 
Whosi'.  limbs  may  rest  with  worms  unblest. 

In  the  damp  and  silent  clay  ! 

With  a  heavy  cheer  they  upraised  his  bier, 

Naker  and  drum  did  roll ; 
The  trumpets  blew  a  last  adieu 

To  the  good  knight's  martial  soul. 
With  measured  tread  thro'  the  aisle  they  sped, 

Bearing  the  dead  kniglit  on, 
And  before  the  shrine  of  St.  James  the  divine, 

They  covered  his  corpse  with  stone  : 
*Twas  fearful  to  see  the  strong  agony 

Of  men  who  had  seldom  wept, 
And  to  hear  the  deep  groan  of  each  mail-clad  one, 

As  the  lid  on  the  coffin  swept. 

With  many  a  groan,  they  placed  that  stone 

O'er  the  heart  of  the  good  and  brave, 
And  many  a  look  the  tall  knights  took 

Of  their  bixjther  soldier's  grave. 
Where  banners  stream  and  coi'slets  gleam 

In  fields  besprent  with  gore, 
That  brother's  hand  and  sheaiing  brand 

In  the  van  should  wave  no  more  : 
The  clarions  call  on  one  and  all 

To  arm  and  fight  amain, 
Would  never  see,  in  chivalry, 

Their  brother's  make  again  ! 

With  book,  and  bell,  and  waxen  light. 

The  mass  for  the  dead  is  sung. 
And  thorough  the  night  in  the  turret's  height, 

The  great  church  bells  are  rung. 
Oh  woe  !  oh  woe  !  for  those  that  go 

From  the  light  of  life  away, 
Whose  limbs  must  rest  with  worms  unblest, 

In  the  damp  and  silent  clay  ! 


*66  THE   PAST   AXD    THE   FUTURE. 


THE   ROCKY  ISLET. 

Perchaxce,  far  out  at  sea,  thou  may'st  liave  found 
Some  lean,  bald  cliflf' — a  lonely  patch  of  ground, 
Alien  amidst  the  waters : — some  poor  Isle 
Where  summer  blooms  were  never  known  to  smile, 
Or  trees  to  yield  their  verdure — yet,  around 
That  barren  spot,  the  dimplitifj  surges  throng, 
Cheering  it  with  their  low  and  plaintive  song, 
And  clasping  the  deserted  cast-away 
In  a  most  strict  embrace — and  all  alonT 
Its  margin,  rendering  freely  its  array 
Of  treasured  shell  and  coral.     Thus  we  may 
Kote  love  in  faithful  woman  ;  oft  amonof 
The  rudest  shocks  of  life's  wide  sea  she  shares 
Man's  lot,  and  more  than  half  his  burden  bears 
Around  whose  path  are  flowei-s,  strewn  by  her  ten- 
dei'  cares. 


THE   PAST  AND   THE   FUTURE. 

I've  looked,  and  trusted,  sighed,  and  loved  my  last  I 
The  dream  hath  vanished,  the  hot  fever's  past 

That  parched  my  3-outh  ! 
Though  cheerless  was  the  matin  of  my  years. 
And  dim  life's  dawning  through  a  vale  of  tears, 

Yet  Hope,  in  ruth, 
With  smile  persuasive,  evermore  would  say — 
••Live  on,  hve  on  ! — Expect  Joy's  sinnmer  day"^ 

Vain  counsel,  void  of  truth  ! 

Yes,  to  the  world  I've  clung  with  fond  embrace, 
And  each  succeeding  day  did  more  efface 
Its  hollow  joys. 


THOSE   RADIANT   EYES.  207 

And  friends  died  out  around  me  everywhere, 
And  I  was  left  to  be  the  idle  stare 

Of  vagrant  boys — 
A  landmark  on  the  ever-shifting  tide 
Of  fashion,  folly,  impudence  and  pride, 

And  ribald  noise. 

Yes,  I  have  lived,  and  lived  until  I  knew 
The  world  ne'er  alters  its  ungi-ateful  hue, 

And  jjlance  malign  ; 
And  though,  at  times,  some  chance-sown  noble  spint 
Its  wilderness  a  season  may  inherit, 

In  want  and  pine. 
Yet  these  be  weeded  soon,  and  pass  away, 
All  unbefriended,  to  their  funeral  clay ! 

Array  thyself  for  flight,  my  soul,  nor  tarry — 
Thou  bird  of  glory  ne'er  wert  doomed  to  marry 

A  sphere  so  rude — 
But  to  be  mated  with  some  hermit  star. 
O'er  heaven's  soft  azure  keeping  watch  afar, 

In  pulchritude  : 
Uplift  thy  pinions,  seek  thy  resting-place, 
Where  kindred  spirits  long  for  thy  embrace — 

Dear  brotherhood. 


OH,   TURN  FROM  ME   THOSE   RADIANT 
EYES! 

On,  turn  from  me  those  radiant  eyes, 

AVith  lo\e's  dark  lightning  beaming, 
Or  veil  the  power  that  in  them  lies 

To  set  the  young  heart  dreaming ! 
Oh,  dim  their  fire,  or  look  no  more. 

For  sure  'tis  wayward  folly 
To  make  a  spirit,  gay  before, 

To  droop  with  melancholy  ! 


2G8    O  THINK  NAE  MAIR  O'  ME,  SWEET  MAY. 

Unjien'rous  v'  'tor  !  not  in  vain 

Th}'  wild  wish  to  subdue  me — 
To  woo  once  more  tliy  glance  I'm  fain, 

Even  should  that  glance  undo  me  : 
What  ])itj^  that  tliy  lips  of  rose 

So  fitted  ibr  heait  healing, 
Should  not,  v.ith  lenderest  kisses,  close 

The  wounds  thine  eyes  are  dealing  1 


O   THINK  NAE  MAIR   O'  ME,    SWEET 
MAY! 

O  THINK  nae  mair  o'  me,  sweet  May ! 

O  think  nae  mair  o'  me  ! 
I'm  but  a  wearied  ghaist,  sweet  May, 

That  hatli  a  M'ierd  to  dree ; 
That  langs  to  leave  a  warld,  sweet  May, 

O'  eerie  dull  and  pain. 
And  pines  to  gang  the  gate,  sweet  May, 

That  its  first  luve  hath  trane  ! 

Althougli  the  form  is  here,  sweet  May, 

The  sp^rit  is  na  sae ; 
It  wanders  to  anither  la«d — 

A  far  and  lonely  way. 
My  bower  is  near  a  ruined  kirk, 

Hard  by  a  grass-green  grave, 
Where,  fad  wi'  tears,  the  gilliflowers 

Above  a  true  heart  wave ! 

Then  think  nae  mair  o'  me,  sweet  May, 

If  I  had  hive  to  gie, 
It  suld  na  need  a  glance  but  ane 

To  bind  me,  dear,  to  thee. 
But  blossoms  twa  o'  life's  best  flower 

This  heart  it  canna  bear — 
It  cast  its  leaves  on  Mary's  grave, 

And  it  can  bloom  nae  mair  1 


THE   LOVE-LORN   KNIGHT,   ETC.  26S 


THE   LOVE-LORN   KNTGHT   AND   THE 
DAMSEL  PITHLESS. 

*'  Uplift  the  Gonfanons  of  Avar — exalt  the  ruddy 
Rood — 

Arise  ye  winds  and  bear  me  on  against  the  Paynim 
brood ! 

farewell  to  forest-cinctured  halls,  farewell  to  song 
and  glee, 

For  toilsome  march  and  clash  of  swords  in  glorious 
Galilee  ! 

And  grace  to  thee,  haught  damoisel — I  ask  no  part- 
ing tear — 

Another  love  may  greet  thee  when  I'm  laid  upon  my 
bier! 

"  My  bark  upon  the  foaming  flood  shall  bound  be- 
fore the  gale, 

Like  arrow  in  its  flight,  until  the  Holy  Land  we 
hail ; 

Then  firmly  shall  our  anchors  grasp  the  belt  of 
Eastern  land, 

For  planks  will  shrink  and  cordage  rot  ere  we  re- 
gain this  strand  ; 

And  welcome  be  the  trumpet's  sound,  the  war 
steed's  tramp  and  neigh, 

And  death,  for  Palestina's  cause,  in  the  battle's  hot 
mellay  ! " 

0  never  for  that  love-lorn  youth  did  vessel  cleave 

the  seas ! 
The  hand  of  death  was  on  the  lips  that  wooed   the 

ocean  breeze ; 
They  bare  him  to  the  damoisel,  they  laid  him  at 

hor  knee. 
Though  knight  and  pilgrim  wept  aloud — no  tear 

di'opt  that  ladye — 


270  LOVE   IN   W0RLDLYNES3E. 

Three  times  she  kissed  the  clay-cold  brow  of  her 

unbidden  guest, 
Then  took  the  vows  at  Mary's  shrine,  and  there  her 
ashes  rest. 


LOVE   IN   WORLDLYNESSE. 

The  gentle  heart,  the  truthful  love, 

Have  flenied  this  Earth  and  fled  to  Heaven— 
The  noblest  spirits  eai'liest  prove 
!Not  Here  below,  but  There  above, 

Is  Hope  no  shadow — Bliss  no  sweven  1 

There  was  a  time,  old  Poets  say, 

When  the  crazed  world  was  in  its  nonage, 
That  they  who  loved  were  loved  alwaye, 
With  faith  transparent  as  the  day, 

But  this,  meseems,  was  fiction's  coinage. 

We  cannot  mate  here  as  we  ought, 

"tVith  laws  opposed  to  simple  feeling ; 
professions  are,  like  lutestring,  bought. 
And  worldly  ties  soon  breed  distraught, 
To  end  in  cold  confrealinnf ! 

Forms  we  have  worshipped  oft  become, 

If  haply  they  affect  our  passion. 
Though  faultless,  icy  cold  and  dumb. 
Because  we  are  not  rich,  like  some. 

Or  proud — Such  is  this  strange  world's  fashion 

Rapt  Fancy  lends  to  unchaste  eyes 

Ideal  beauty,  ami  on  faces 
W^here  red  rose  blent  with  lily  tries 
For  mastery,  in  wanton  wise, 

Bestows  enchanting  graces : 


LOVE   IN   WORLDLYXESSE.  27i 

Yet,  as  we  gaze,  the  charms  decay 

That  promised  long  with  these  to  linger  ] 

Of  love's  delight  we're  forced  to  say, 

It  melts  like  dreamer's  wealth  away. 

Which  cheers  the  eye  but  mocks  the  finger  1 

And,  therefore,  move  I  calmly  by 

The  siren  bosom  softly  heaving. 
And  mark,  untoui-hed,  the  tempter's  sigh, 
Or  make  response  with  tranquil  eye — 

"  Kind  damsel,  I  am  past  deceiving  !  " 

Long  sued  I  as  a  man  should  do. 

With  cheek  high  flushed  by  deep  emotion— 
My  lady's  love  had  no  such  hue. 
Hard  selfishness  would  still  break  through 

The  glowing  mask  of  her  devotion ! 

No  land  had  I — but  I  had  health — 
No  store  was  mine  of  costly  raiment — 

My  lady  glided  off  by  stealth 

To  wed  a  lozel  for  his  wealth — 
And  this  was  Loyalty's  repayment ! 

The  language  of  the  trusting  heart, 

The  soothfast  fondness  firm,  but  tender — 

Are  now  to  most  a  studied  part, 

A  tongue  assumed,  a  trick  of  art, 
Whereof  no  meaning  can  I  render. 

And  hence  I  say  that  loyal  love 

Hath  fiemed  the  Earth  and  fled  to  Heaven; 
And' that  not  Here,  but  There  above. 
Souls  may  love  rightfully,  and  prove 

Hope  is  no  shadow — ISliss  no  sweven ! 


272  A  NIGHT  VISION. 


A   NIGHT   VISION. 

Lncina  shyning  in  silence  of  the  nicht ; 
The  heviii  being  all  full  of  stirris  bricht; 
To  bed  I  went,  bot  there  I  tuke  no  rest, 
With  hery  thocht  I  was  so  sair  oppressed, 
That  sair  I  langit  after  davis  licht. 
Of  fortoun  I  coraplaii'.it  hcvely, 
That  echo  to  me  stude  so  oontrarously  ; 
And  at  the  last,  quhen  I  had  turnyt  oft 
For  werines,  on  nie  ane  slummer  soft 
Came,  with  ane  dremiug  and  a  iantesy. 

Uunbar. 

I  HAD  a  vision  in  the  depth  of  nijiht — 

A  dream  of  glory — one  lono;  thrill  of  gladness— 

A  thing  of  strangest  meaning  and  delight; 

And  yet  upon  my  heart  there  came  such  sadness, 

And  aim  forebodings  of  my  after  years, 

That  I  awoke  in  sorrow  and  in  tears  ! 

There  stood  revealed  before  me  a  bright  maid, 
Clad  in  a  white  silk  tunic,  which  displayed 
The  beautiful  proportions  of  her  frame  ; 
And  she  did  call  upon  me  by  my  name — 
And  I  did  marvel  at  her  voice,  and  shook 
AV'ith  terror,  but  right  soon  the  smiling  look 
Of  gentleness,  that  radiant  maiden  threw 
From  her  large  sparkling  eyes  of  deepest  blue, 
Did  reassure  me.     Breathless,  I  did  gaze 
Upon  that  lovely  one,  in  fond  amaze, 
And  marked  her  long  white  hair  as  it  did  flow. 
With  wanton  dalliance,  o'er  the  pillarerl  snow 
Of  her  swan-like  neck  ; — and  then  my  eye  grew 

dim 
With  an  exceeding  lustre,  for  the  slim 
And  gauze-wove  raiment  of  her  bosom  fair, 
Was  somewhat  ruflled  by  the  midnight  air; 
And  as  it  gently  heaved,  there  sprung  to  view 
Such  glories  underneath — such  sisters  two 


A    XIGHT    VISIOX.  273 

Of  rival  loveliness !     Oh,  'twere  most  vain 

For  fond  conceit  to  fancy  such  ajrain. 

The  robe  she  wore  was  broidered  fetouslye 

With  flour  and  leaf  of  richest  imagerye ; 

And  threads  of  gold  therein  were  entertwined 

With  quaintest  needlecraft ;  and  to  my  mind 

It  seemed,  tlie  waist  of  this  most  lovely  one 

Was  clipped  within  a  broad  and  azure  zone, 

Studded  with  strange  devices-— One  small  hand 

Waved  gracefully  a  slender  ivory  wand, 

And  with  the  other,  ever  and  anon, 

She  shook  a  harp,  which,  as  the  winds  sighed  past, 

Gave  a  right  pleasant  and  bewitching  tone 

To  each  wild  vagrant  blast. 

Meseems, 
After  this  wondrous  guise,  that  maiden  sweet 
Stood  visible  before  me,  while  the  beams 
Of  Dian  pale,  laughed  round  hor  little  feet 
AVith  icy  lustre,  through  the  narrow  pane  ; 
And  this  discourse  she"  held  in  merry  vein ; 
Although  methought  'twas  counterfeited,  and 
Tlie  matter  sti-ange,  that  none  might  understand. 

She  told  me,  that  the  moon  was  in  her  wane — 
And  life  was  tiding  on,  and  that  the  world 
Was  waxen  old — that  nature  grew  unkind, 
And  men  grew  selfish  quite,  and  sore  bechurled^ 
That  Honor  was  a  bubble  of  the  mind — 
And  Virtue  was  a  nothing  undefined^ 
And  as  for  Woman,  She,  indeed,  could  claim 
A  title  all  her  own — She  had  a  name 
And  place  in  Time's  long  chronicles.  Deceit — 
And  Glory  was  a  phantom — Death  a  cheat  I 

She  said  I  might  remember  her,  for  she 
Had  trifled  with  me  in  mine  infancy ; 
And  in  those  days,  that  now  are  long  agone, 
Had  tended  me,  as  if  I  were  her  own 
18  • 


274  A    KIGHT   VISIOX. 

And  only  ofTsprinn;.     When  a  very  child, 
She  said,  her  soothing  whispers  oft  beguiled 
The  achings  of  my  heart — that  in  my  youth, 
She,  too,  had  given  me  dreams  of  Honor,  Tiuth, 
Of  Glory  and  of  Greatness — and  of  Fame — 
And  the  bright  vision  of  a  deathless  name ! 
And  she  had  turned  my  eye,  with  upwai-d  look, 
To  read  the  bravely  star-enamelled  book 
Of  the  blue  skies — and  in  the  rolling  spheres 
To  con  strange  lessons,  penned  in  characters 
Of  most  mysterious  import — she  had  made 
Life's  thorny  path  to  be  all  sown  with  flowers 
Of  diverse  form  and  fragrance,  of  each  shade 
Of  loveliness  that  glitters  in  the  bowers 
Of  princely  damoisels, — -.Nay,  more,  her  hand 
Had  plucked  the  bright  flowers  of  another  land, 
Belike  of  Faerye,  and  had  woven  them 
Like  to  a  chaplet,  or  gay  diadem. 
For  me  to  wear  in  triumph — But  that  she 
Had  fostered  me  so  long,  she  feared,  I'd  spoil 
With  very  tenderness,  nor  ever  be 
Fit  for  tliis  world's  coarse  drudgery  and  moil: 
Did  she  not  even  now  take  leave  of  me, 
And  her  ])rotecting,  loving  arms  uncoil 
Forever  and  forever, — and  though  late, 
Now  leave  me  to  self-guidance,  and  to  fate. 

Then  passed  that  glorious  spirit,  and  the  smile 
She  whilom  wore  fled  from  her  beauteous  cheek: 
And  paleness,  and  a  troubled  grief  the  while 
Subdued  her  voice. — Metliouglit  I  strove  to  speak 
Some  words  of  tender  synij)athy,  and  caught 
Her  small  white   trembling  hand,  but,  she,   dis- 
traught, 
Turned  her  fair  form  away,  and  nearer  drew 
To  where  the  clustering  ivy  leaves  thick  grew, 
And  shaded  half  the  casement — There  she  stood, 
Ivike  a  tall  cr}'stal  column,  in  the  flood 
Of  the  fair  moonshine,  and  right  thoughtful-wise 


A   XIGHT    VISION.  275 

She  seemed  to  scan  the  aspect  of  the  skies ; 

Sudden  a  tremulous  tear  filled  either  eye, 

Yet  fell  not  ou  her  cheek,  but  dubiously, 

Like   dew   gems   upon  a  flower,   hung   quivering 

there ; 
And,  like  a  love-crazed  maiden,  she  half  sang, 
Half  uttered  mournful  fancies  in  despair  ; 
And  indistinctly  in  my  ear  there  rang 
Something  of  years  to  be, — of  dark,  dark  years, 
Laden  with  sorrow,  madness,  fury,  teaj-s — 
Of  days  that  had  no  sunshine — and  of  nights 
Estranged  from  slumber — of  harsh  worldly  slights — 
Of  cruel  disappointments — of  a  hell 
That  glowcth  in  the  bosom,  fierce  and  fell, 
Which  may  not  be  extinguished — of  the  pains 
Of  journeying  through  lone  and  trackless  plains 
Which  have  no  limits — and  of  savage  faces, 
That  showed  no  trait  of  pity ! 

Then  that  maid 
Stretched  her  long  arms  to  heaven,  and  wept  for 

shame ; 
And  as  upon  her  soul  dim  bodements  came. 
Once  more,  in  veriest  sadness,  thus  she  said  : 
"  I  may  not  cheer  him  more  !   I  may  not  breathe 
Life  in  his  wasting  limbs,  nor  healthy  fire 
In  his  grief-sunken  eye — I  may  not  wreathe 
Fresh  flowers  for  him  to  gaze  on,  nor  inspire 
DeUcious  dreamings,  when  the  paly  host 
Of  cares  and  troubles  weigh  his  spirit  down, 
And  hopes  delayed,  in  worse  despair  are  lost ; 
Unaided,  he  may  sink  upon  the  path, 
No  hand  of  succor  near,  nor  melting  eye 
To  yield  its  pittance  poor  of  sympathy  ; 
Already,  too  successful  have  1  weaved 
ISly  tiny  web  of  folly  ;  undeceived. 
At  length,  he'll  view  its  baseless  fabric  pass. 
Like  fleeting  shadows  o'er  the  brittle  glass, 
Leaving  no  substance  there ;  and  he  may  curse, 


276  A   NIGHT   VISION. 

With  bitter  malison,  his  too  partial  nurse, 
And  chartje  her  with  his  sufferinjrs ! " 

So  wept 
Tliat  maid,  in  seeming  sorrow,  till  there  fell 
From  her  lips  Grief's  volume- word — Farewell ! 
And  then,  methoujiht,  she  softly  passed  away, 
As  a  thin  mist  of  szlory  on  a  ray 
Of  purest  moonshine  ;  or  like  starlet  bright 
Sailed  onward  through  the  ocean  of  the  night ! 

And  then,  meseems,  I  heard  the  wailing  sound 
Of  a  wind-harp  afar,  and  voice  of  one 
Who  sung  thereto  a  plaintive  melody  ; 
And  some  words  reached  me,  but  the  rest  were 

drowned 
In  dimmest  distance,  and  the  hollow  moan 
Of  the  night-breezes  fitful  sweeping  by ; 
Yet  these  stray  words,  erewhile  on  earth  they  fell, 
Told  Hope  had  pitying  smiled  before  her  last  faro 

well. 

Then  all  grew  dark  and  loveless,  and  afar 
I  saw  the  falling  down  of  many  a  star. 
As  the  moon  paled  in  sorrow — And  the  roar 
Of  darkly  tumbling  Hoods  I  hoard,  that  dashed 
Through  the  deep  fissures  of  tlie  rifled  rock — 
While  phantoms  flitted  by  with  ghastly  mock, 
And  jeers  malign— and  demons  on  me  glar'd 
Looks  of  infernal  meaning;  then  in  silence 
Troop'd  onwards  to  their  doom  ! 

Starting,  T  broke 
Sleep's  leaden  bonds  of  sorrow,  and  awoke. 
Wondering  to  find  my  eyeballs  red  with  tears  1 
And  my  breast  heaving  with  sepulchral  fears. 


THE  LONE    THORN.  277 


THIS   IS  NO    SOLITUDE. 

This  is  no  Solitude  ;  these  brown  woods  speak 
In  tones  most  musical — this  limpid  river 
Chants  a  low  song,  to  be  forgotten  never! — 
These  my  beloved  companions  are  so  meek, 
So  soul-sustaining,  I  were  crazed  to  seek 
Again  the  tumult,  the  o'erpowering  hum, 
Which  of  the  ever  busy  hiving  city  come — 
Parting  us  from  ourselves. — Still  let  us  breathe 
The  heavenly  air  of  contemplation  here  ; 
And  with  old   trees,  gray  stones,  and   runnels 
clear, 
Claim  kindred  and  hold  converse.     He  that  seeth 
Upon  this  vesjjer  spot  no  loveliness. 
Nor  hears  therein  a  voice  of  tenderness. 
Calling  him  friend,  Nature  in  vain  would  bless  1 


THE  LONE  THORN. 

Beneath  the  scant  shade  of  an  aged  thorn, 

Silvered  with  age,  and  mossy  with  decay, 
I  stood,  and  there  bethought  me  of  its  morn 

Of  verdant  lustihood,  long  passed  away  ; 
Of  its  meridian  vigor,  now  outworn 

By  cankering  years,  and  by  the  tempest's  sway 
Bared  to  the  pitying  glebe. — Companionless, 

Stands  the  gray  thorn  complaining  to  the  wind — • 
Of  all  the  old  wood's  leafy  loveliness 

The  sole  memorial  that  lags  behind  ; 
Its  compeers  perished  in  their  youthfulness, 

Though  round  the  earth  their  roots  seem'd  firmly 
twined : 
How  sad  it  is  to  be  so  anchored  here 
As  to  outlive  one's  mates,  and  die  without  a  tear  I 


278  THE   8LAYNE   MEXSTREL. 


THE  SLAYNE  MENSTREL. 

Axe  harper  there  was — ane  harper  gude — 
Cam'  harpiii'  at  the  gloaaiin'  fa' — 

And  he  has  won  to  the  bonnie  bield 
Quhilk  callit  is  the  Newtoun  Ha'. 

"Brume,  brume  on  hil" — the  harper  sang — 
"  And  rose  on  brier  are  blythe  to  see — 
I  -would  I  saw  the  brume  sae  lang, 

Quhilk  cieidis  the  braes  o'  my  ain  countree  1 

"  Out  on  ye,  out,  ye  prydefu'  loun, 
Wi'  me  ye  winna  lig  the  nicht — 
Hie  to  some  bordel  in  borrowe  toun : 
Of  harpand  craft  I  haud  but  licht ! 

"  Out  on  ye,  out,  ye  menstrel  lewdc  " — 

Sayd  the  crewel  Laird  o'  the  Newtoun  Ha'- 

"  Ye'lfnae  bide  here,  by  blessit  Rude, 
Gif  harpe  or  lyf  ye  reck  ava' ! " 

"  I  care  na  for  mie  lyf  ane  plack  " — • 
Quoth  that  auld  harper  sturdilie — 

"  But  this  gude  harpe  upon  mie  back 
Sal  ne'er  be  fylit  by  ane  lyk  thee !" 

"  Thou  liest  there,  thou  menstrel  wicht !  " 

Outspak  tlie  Laird  o'  the  Newtoun  Ha' — 

**  For  ye  to  death  bedene  are  dioht, 

Haif  at  thee  here  and  mend  thy  saw ! " 

Alace,  Alace,  the  harper  gude 
Was  borne  back  aganis  the  wa'. 

And  wi'  the  best  o'  his  auld  hertis  blude, 
They  weetit  hae  the  Newtoun  Ha'  1 


I 


THE    SLAYNE   MEXSTREL.  279 

Yet  did  he  die  wl'  harpe  in  han', 
Maist  lyk  ane  monstrel  o'  degree — 

There  was  na  ane  in  a'  the  land 
Might  matfhe  wl'  him  o'  the  North  couutree ! 

Erie  Douglas  chauncit  to  ryde  therebye — 

Ane  gallant  gentleman  was  he — 
Wi'  four  score  o'  weel  harnessit  men, 

To  harrie  in  the  South  countree. 

He  haltit  at  the  Newtoun  Ha' — 

"  Quhat  novelles  now,  bauld  Laird,  hae  ye  ?  " 
"  It's  I  hait"  slayne  a  worthlesse  wicht, 

Ane  menstfel  lewde,  as  you  may  see ! " 

"  Now  schaw  to  me  the  harper's  heid, 
And  schaw  to  me  the  harper's  hand, 
For  sair  I  fear  you've  causeless  spilt 
As  gentil  blude  as  in  a'  Scotland  ! " 

"  Kep  then  his  held,  thou  black  Douglas — 
Sard  boastfuUie  fase  Newtoun  Ha' — 

"  And  kep  his  hand,  thou  black  Douglas, 
His  fingers  slim  his  craft  may  schawl" 

The  stout  Erie  vysit  first  the  heid, 
Then  neist  he  lukit  on  the  hand — ■ 
"  It's  foul  befa'  ye,  Newtoun  Pla', 

Ye've  slayne  the  pryde  o'  gude  Scotland  I 

"  Now  stir  ye,  stir,  my  merrle  men, 

The  faggot  licht,  and  bete  the  flame, 
A  fire  sal  rise  o'er  this  buirdly  bield, 

And  its  saulless  Laird  in  the  lowe  we'll  taue  I" 

The  bleeze  blew  up,  the  bleeze  dipt  roun' 
The  bonny  towers  o'  the  Newtoun  Ha', 

And  evir  as  armit  men  ran  out, 

Black  Douglas  slewe  them  ane  and  a'. 


280  THE   MERMAIDEX. 

The  bleeze  it  roarit  and  wantonit  roun' 
The  weel-])ilet  wawis  o'  the  Newtoim  Ha*, 

And  ruif  and  rafter,  bank  and  beam, 
Aneath  tlie  bauld  fyris  doun  did  fa' ! 

Now  -waly  for  the  crewel  Laird — 
As  he  cam  loiipin'  tlirough  the  lowe, 

Erie  Douglas  swappit  aff  his  held 
And  swuu^  it  at  his  saddil  bowe  ! 


o 


THE  MERMAIDEN. 

♦*  The  nicht  is  mirk,  and  the  wind  blaws  schill, 

And  the  white  faem  weets  my  bree, 
And  my  mind  misgi'es  me,  gay  maiden, 

That  the  land  we  sail  never  see  1 " 
Then  up  and  spak'  the  mermaiden, 

And  she  spak'  blythe  and  free, 
•'  I  never  said  to  my  bonnie  bridegroom, 

That  on  land  we  sud  weddit  be. 

"  Oh  !  I  never  said  that  ane  erthlie  priest 

Our  bridal  blessing  should  gi'e. 
And  I  never  said  that  a  landwart  bouir 

Should  hauld  my  love  and  me." 
"  And  whare  is  that  priest,  my  bonnie  maiden, 

Jf  ane  erthlie  wicht  is  na  he  ?  " 
"  Oh !  the  wind  will  sough,  and  the  sea  will  rair 

When  weddit  we  twa  sail  be." 

"  And  whare  is  that  bouir,  my  bonnie  maiden, 

If  on  land  it  sud  na  be  ?  " 
"  Oh  I  my  bjythe  bouir  is  low,"  said  the  mermaideu, 

"  In  the  bonnie  green  howes  of  the  sea : 
My  gay  bouir  is  biggit  o'  the  gude  ships'  keels. 

And  the  banes  o'  the  drowned  at  sea  ; 


SONG.  281 

The  fisch  are  the  deer  that  fill  my  parks, 
And  the  water  waste  my  doiirie. 

*'  And  my  bouir  is  sklaitit  wi'  the  big  blue  waves, 

And  paved  wi'  the  yellow  sand, 
And  in  my  chaumers  grow  bonnie  white  flowers 

That  never  grew  on  land. 
And  have  ye  e'er  seen,  my  bonnie  bridegroom, 

A  leman  on  earth  that  wud  gi'e 
Aiker  for  aiker  o'  the  red  plough'd  land. 

As  I'll  gi'e  to  thee  o'  the  sea  ? 

"  The  mune  will  rise  in  half  ane  hour, 

And  the  wee  bright  starns  will  seliine  ; 
Then  we'll  sink  to  my  bouir,  'neath  the  wan  water 

Full  fifty  fathom  and  nine  !  " 
A  wild,  wild  skreich  gi'ed  the  fey  bridegroom, 

And  a  loud,  loud  lauch,  the  bride  ; 
For  the  mune  raise  up,  and  the  twa  sank  down 

Under  the  silver'd  tide. 


SONG. 

He  courted  me  in  parlor,  and  he  courted  me  in  ha', 
He   courted   me  by   Bothwell   banks,   amang   the 

flowers  sae  sma', 
He  courted  me  wi'  pearlins,  wi'  ribbons,  and  wi' 

rings, 
He  courted  me  wi'  laces,  and  wi'  mony  mair  braw 

things ; 
But  O  he  courted  best  o'  a'  wi'  his  black  blythe- 

some  ee, 
\Vhilk  wi'  a  gleam  o'  witcherie  culst  glaumour  over 

me. 


2S2  SONG. 

We  hied  thegither  to  the  Fair — I  rade  ahiat  my 

I  fand  his  heart  leap  up  and  doun,  -while  mine  beat 

faint  and  low; 
He  turn'd  his  rosy  cheek  about,  and  then,  ere  ] 

could  trow, 
The  widdit'u'  o'  wickedness  took  arles  o'  my  raou ! 
Syne,  when  I  feigned  to  be  sair  fleyed,  sae  pawkil: 

as  he 
Bann'd  the  auld  mare  for  missing  fit,  and  thrawi  x 

him  ajee. 

And  aye  he  waled  the  loanings  lang,  till  we  dre  v 

near  the  town, 
When  I  could  hear  the  kimmers  say — ''There  ridv.8 

a  comely  loun  ! " 
I  turned  wi'  pride  and  keeked  at  him,  but  no  as  to 

be  seen, 
And  thought  how  dowie  I  wad  feel,  gin  he  made 

love  to  Jean  ! 
But  soon  the  manly  chiel,  aff-hand,  thus  frankly  said 

to  me, 
"  Meg,  either  tak  me  to  yoursel,  or  set  me  fairly 

free  ! " 

To  Glasgow  Green  I  link'd  wi'  him,  to  see  the  ferlies 

there, 
He  birled  his  penny  wi'  the  best — what  noble  could 

do  mair  V 
But  ere  ae  fit  he'd  tak  me  hame,  he  cries — "  Meg, 

tell  me  noo : 
Gin  ye  will  hae  me,  there's  my  lufe,  I'll  aye  be  leal 

an'  true." 
On  sic  an  honest,  loving  heart  how  could  I  draw  a 

bar? 
What  could  I  do  but  tak  Rab's  hand,  for  better  or 

for  waur  ? 


THE    LEAN    LOVER. 


THE  LEAN  LOVER. 

I  PACED,  an  easy  rambler, 

Along  the  surf-washed  shore — 
And  watched  the  noble  freightage 

The  swelling  ocean  bore. 
I  met  a  moody  iellow 

Who  thus  discoursed  his  woe — 
'  Across  the  inconstant  waters, 

Deceitful  woman,  go  ! 

•*  I  loved  that  beauteous  lady — 

More  truly  wight  ne'er  loved — 
I  loved  that  high-born  lady, 

My  faith  she  long  had  proved : 
Her  troth  to  me  she  plighted 

With  passion's  amorous  show — 
Go  o'er  the  inconstant  waters. 

Ungrateful  worldling,  go  1 

"  Be  mine  yon  clifF-perched  chapel 

AVhich  beetles  o'er  the  deep  ; 
There,  like  some  way-worn  palmer, 

I'll  sit  me  down  and  weep. 
I'll  note  upon  the  billows 

Her  lessening  sail  of  snow. 
And  waft  across  the  waters — 

Go,  fleeting  fair  one,  go  ! " 

He  clambered  to  the  chapel 

Tliat  toppled  o'er  the  deep — 
There,  like  a  Avay-worn  palmer, 

He  laid  him  down  to  weep  : 
And  still  I  heard  his  wailing 

Upon  the  strand  below — 
"  Go  o'er  the  inconstant  waters, 

Go,  faithless  woman,  go  !  " 


283 


284  MUSIC. 


AFFECTEST  THOU  THE  PLEASURES 
OF  THE  SHADE  ? 

Affectest  thou  the  pleasures  of  the  shade, 
And  pastoral  customs  of  the  olden  time, 
When  gentle  shepherd  piped  to  gentle  maid, 
On  oaten  reed,  his  quaint  and  antique  rhyme  ? 
Then  welcome  to  the  green  and  mossy  nook, 
The  forest  dark  and  silver  popphug  brook, 
And  flowers  in  fragrant  indolence  that  blossom 
On  the  sequestered  valley's  sloping  bosom — 
Where  in  the  leafy  halls  glad  strains  are  pealing, 
The  woodland  songsters' amorous  thoughts  revealing 
Look  how  the  morning's  eager  kisses  wake 
The  clouds  that  guard  the  Orient,  blushing  red — 
Behold  heaven's  phantom-chasing  Sovereign  shake 
The  golden  honors  of  his  gracelul  head 
Above  that  earth  his  day-dawn  saw  so  fair ! — 
Now  damsels  lithe  trip  lightsomely  away. 
To  bathe  their  clustered  brows  and  bosoms  bare 
In  virgin  dews  of  budding,  balmy  May ! 


MUSIC. 

Strange  how  the  mystically  mingled  sound 
Of  voices  rising  from  these  rifted  rocks 
And  unseen  valleys — whence  no  organ  ever 
Tliundered  harmonious  its  stupendous  notes, 
Nor  pointed  arcii,  nor  low-browed  darksome  aisle, 
Itolled  back  their  mighty  nmsic — seems  to  me 
An  ocean  vast,  divinely  undulating, 
"Where,  bathed  in  beauty,  floats  the  enraptured  soul; 
Now  borne  on  the  translucent  deep,  it  skirts 
borne  dazzling  bank  of  amaranthine  Howers, 


THE    SHIPWRECKED    LOVER.  285 

Now  on  a  couch  of  odors  cast  supine, 

It  pants  beneath  o'erpovvenng  redolence: — 

Buoj-ant  anon  on  a  rejoicing  surge, 

It  heaves,  on  tides  tumultuous,  far  aloft, 

Until  it  verges  on  the  cope  of  heaven, 

Whence  issued,  in  their  unity  of  joy, 

Tlie  anthems  of  the  earth-creating  Morn : 

Yielding  again  to  an  entrancing  slumber, 

In  sweet  abandonment,  it  glideth  on 

To  amber  caves  and  emerald  palaces. 

Where  the  lost  Seraphs — welcomed  by  the  main— 

Their  lyres  suspended  in  their  time  of  sorrow, 

Amid  the  deepening  glories  of  the  flood ; — 

There  the  rude  revels  of  the  boisterous  winds 

The  tranquillous  waves  afflict  not,  nor  dispart 

The  passionate  clasping  of  their  azure  arms  ! 


THE   SHIPWRECKED   LOVER. 

The  Port-Reeve's  maid  has  laid  her  down 

Upon  a  restless  pillow, 
But  wakeful  thought  is  wandering 

Ayont  the  ocean  billow. 
Her  love's  away — he's  far  away — 

A  world  of  waves  asunder — 
Around  him  now  the  storm  may  burst 

With  fearful  peals  of  thunder ! 

But  yet — the  night-wind's  breath  is  faint, 

The  night-beam  entereth  meekly  ; 
But  when  the  moon's  fair  face  is  free, 

Strange  she  should  shine  so  wealdy  1 — 
Yet  guided  by  her  waning  beam 

His  ship  must  swim  securely — 
Beneath  so  fair  a  sky  as  this 

He'll  strike  his  haven  surely  ! 


286  THE   SHIPWRACKED   LOVER. 

There  came  a  knocking  to  the  door, 

That  hour  so  lone  and  stilly  ; 
And  something  to  the  maiden  said — 

"  Arise  tor  true  love  Willie  !  " 
Another  knock  !  another  still — 

Three  knocks  were  given  clearly — 
Then  quickly  rose  the  Port-Reeve's  is^Aiti — 

Her  seaman  she  loved  dearly  ! 

And  first  she  saw  a  streak  of  light, 

Like  moonshine  cold  and  paly  ; 
And  then  she  heard  a  well-known  step — 

The  maiden's  pulse  beat  gayly  ! 
She  saw  a  light,  she  heard  a  step, 

She  marked  a  figure  slender 
Across  the  threshold  pass  like  thought, 

And  stand  in  her  lone  chamber. 

It  paced  the  chamber  once  and  twice, 

It  crossed  it  three  times  slowly — 
But  when  she  to  her  ^laker  prayed, 

It  fled  like  sprite  unholy. 
The  form  the  vanished  shadow  wore 

Was  of  her  true  love  Willie — 
O  not  a  breath  escaped  the  Ups 

That  pallid  looked  and  chilly  ! 

Long  motionless  the  maiden  stood. 

In  wonder,  fear,  and  sorrow — 
A  tale  of  wre<.'k,  a  tale  of  woe 

Was  told  her  on  the  morrow ! 
The  ship  of  her  returning  hopes 

Had  sunk  beneath  the  billow — • 
The  ocean-shell,  the  ocean-weed 

Were  now  her  lover's  pillow  I 


HOLLO,   MY  FAXCYI  287 


HOLLO,  MY   FANCY! 

Hollo,  my  Fancy  !     Tliou  art  fiee — 
Nor  bolt  nor  shackle  fetters  thee  1 
Thy  prison  door  is  cleft  in  twain, 
And  Nature  claims  her  child  asjain ; 
Doff  the  base  weeds  of  toil  and  strife, 
And  hail  the  world's  returning  life  ! 

Up  and  away  !     'Tis  Nature's  voice 
Bids  ihee  hie  fieldward  and  rejoice; 
She  calls  thee  from  unhallowed  mirth 
To  walk  with  beauty  o'er  the  earth  ; 
Proudly  she  calls  thee  forth,  and  now 
Prints  blandest  kisses  on  thy  brow  ; 
On  lip,  on  cheek,  on  bosom  bare, 
She  pours  the  balmy  morning  air: 
The  fulness  of  a  mother's  breast 

Swells  for  thee  in  this  gracious  hour  ; 
Up,  Sluggard,  up  !  from  dreams  unblest, 

And  let  thy  heart  its  love  outpour ! 
Up,  Sluggard,  up  I  all  is  awake 

With  song  and  smile  to  welcome  thee; 
The  flower  its  timid  buds  would  break 

"Wert  thou  but  once  abroad  to  see  ! 
Teeming  with  love,  earth,  ocean,  air 
Are  musical  with  gi-ateful  prayer  1 
Each  measured  sound,  each  glorious  sight, 
Personifies  intense  delight! 
The  breeze  that  crisps  the  summer  se£is, 
Or  softly  plains  tlirough  leafy  trees. 
Or,  on  the  hill-side,  stoops  to  chase 
The  wild  kid  in  its  giddy  race— - 
The  breeze  that,  like  a  lover's  sigh, 
Of  mingled  fear  and  ecstasy, 
Plays  amorous  over  brow  and  cheek, 
Methinks  it  has  a  voice  to  speak 


288  HOLLO,   MY   fancy! 

Tlie  joys  of  the  awakenlnji  morn — 
When,  on  exulting  pinion  borne, 
The  lark,  sole  monarch  of  the  sky. 
Pours  from  his  throat  rich  melody. 

Hollo,  my  Fancy  !     Fast  a-field, 
Aurora's  face  is  just  revealed  : 
Night's  shadows  yet  have  scantly  sped 
Midway  up  yonder  mountain's  head — 
While  in  the  valley  far  below, 
The  misty  billows,  ebbing,  show 
Wliere  fairy  isles  in  beauty  glow ; 
Delicious  spots  of  elfin  green, 
Emerging  from  a  world  unseen. 
Of  dreams  and  quaintest  fantasies — 
Spots  that  would  the  Faerye  Queen 
To  a  very  tittle  please  ! 
Away  the  shadowy  phantoms  roll, 

Up-borne  by  the  rising  breeze. 
Fluttering  like  some  banner  scroll ; 

While,  peering  o'er  the  silent  seas 
Of  yon  far  shore,  thou  may'st  descry 
The  red  glance  of  the  Day-Star's  eye ! 

Hollo,  ray  Fancy  !     l^et  us  trace 
The  breaking  of  the  vestal  dawn  ! 

Through  dappled  clouds,  with  stealthy  pace. 
It  travels  over  mount  and  lawn. 
Lacings  of  crimson  and  of  gold. 
Threaded  and  twined  an  hundred-fold, 
Bar  the  far  Orient,  while  the  sea 
Of  molten  ])rass  apjjcars  to  be. 
And  lo  !  upon  that  glancing  tide 
Vessels  of  snowy  whiteness  glide  : 
Some  portward,  self-impelled  are  steering, 
Some  in  the  distance  disappearing; 
And  some,  through  mingled  light  and  shade, 
Like  visions  gleam — like  visions  fade. 
Strange  are  these  ocean  mysteries  ! 


HOLLO,   MY   fancy!  289 

No  helmsman  on  the  poop  one  sees, 

No  sailor  nestled  in  the  shrouds, 

Singing  to  the  passing  clouds, 

But  let  us  leave  old  Neptune's  show, 

And  to  the  dewy  uplands  go  ! 

Now  skyward,  in  a  checkered  crowd, 

Rolls  each  rosy-edged  cloud. 

Flaunting  in  the  upper  air 

;Many  a  tabard  rich  and  rare  ; 

And  mantling,  as  they  onward  rush, 

Every  hill-top  with  a  blush. 

To  dissolve,  streak  after  streak. 

Like  rose  tints  on  a  maiden's  cheek, 

When,  in  wanton  waggish  folly. 

The  chord  of  love's  sweet  melancholy 

Is  rudely  smitten,  and  the  cheek 

Tells  tales  the  lip  might  never  speak. 

Hollo,  my  fancy  !     It  is  good 
To  seek  soul-soothing  solitude  ; 
To  leave  the  city,  and  the  mean. 
Cold,  abject  things  that  crawl  therein  ; 
Flee  crowded  street  and  painted  hall. 
Where  sin  rules  rampant  over  all ; 
To  roam  where  greenwoods  thickest  grow, 
Where  meadows  spread  and  rivers  flow, 
Where  mountains  loom  in  mist,  or  lie 
Clad  in  a  sunshine  livery  ; 
Wander  through  dingle  and  through  dell, 
Which  the  sweet  primrose  loveth  well ; 
And  wliere,  in  every  ivied  cranny 
Of  mouldering  crag,  unseen  by  any, 
Clouds  of  busy  birds  are  dinning 
Anthems  that  welcome  day's  beginning : 
Or,  like  lusty  shepherd  groom, 
Wade  through  seas  of  yellow  broom ; 
And,  with  foot  elastic  tread 
On  the  shrinking  floweret's  head, 
As  it  droops  with  dew-drops  laden, 
IS 


290  HOLLO,   MY   FANCY. 

Like  aome  tear-surcharged  maiden  : 
Skip  it,  trip  it  deftly,  till 
Every  flower-cup  licpior  spill, 
And  orreen  earth  grows  bacchanal, 
Freed  from  night's  o'ershadowing  pall ; 
Or  let  us  climb  tlic  steep,  and  know 
How  the  mountain  breezes  blow. 

Hither,  brave  Fancy  !     Speed  we  on, 
Like  Judah's  bard  to  Lebanon  ! 
Every  step  Ave  take,  more  nigh 
Mounts  the  sjnrit  to  the  sky. 
Sounds  of  life  are  waxing  low 
As  we  high  and  higher  go, 
And  a  deeper  silence  given 
For  choice  communing  with  heaven  ; 
On  this  eminence  awhile 
Rest  we  from  our  vigorous  toil : 
Forth  our  eyes,  mind's  scouts  that  be, 
Cull  fresh  food  for  fantasy  ! 
Like  a  map,  beneath  these  skies, 
Fair  the  summer  landscape  lies — 
Sea,  and  sand,  and  brook,  and  tree, 
Meadow  broad,  and  sheltered  lea. 
Shade  and  sunshine  intermarried, 
All  deliciously  varied  : 
Goodly  fields  of  bladed  corn. 
Pastures  green,  where  neatherd's  horn 
Bloweth  throngli  the  livelong  day, 
Many  a  rudely  jocund  lay  : 
There  be  rows  of  waving  trees, 
Hymning  saintliest  homilies 
To  the  weary  passer-by. 
Till  his  heart  mount  to  his  eye, 
And  his  tinnliufz  feelings  glow 
With  deep  love  for  all  below. 
While  his  soul,  in  rapturous  prayer. 
Finds  a  temple  everywhere. 
See,  each  headland  hath  its  tower, 


HOLLO,   MY   fancy!  291 

Every  nook  its  own  love  bower — 
Wliilc,  from  every  sheltered  glen, 
Peep  the  homes  of  rustic  men  ; 
And  apart,  on  hillock  green, 
Is  the  hamlet's  chapel  seen  : 
Mingled  elms  and  yews  surround 
Its  most  peaceful  burial-ground  ; 
Like  sentinels  the  ohl  trees  stand, 
Guarding  death's  sleep-silent  land. 
Adown  the  dell  a  brawling  burn. 
With  wimple  manifold,  doth  spurn 
The  shining  pebl)k'S  in  its  course. 
Foaming  like  spur-fretted  horse — - 
A  mighty  voice  in  puny  form, 
Miniature  of  blustering  storm, 
It  rates  each  shelving  crag  and  tree 
That  would  abridge  its  liberty, 
And  roundly  swears  it  will  be  free  ! 
'Tis  even  so,  for  now  along 
The  plain  it  sweeps  with  softened  song; 
And  there,  in  summer,  morn  and  noon. 
And  eve,  the  village  children  wade, 
Oft  wondei-ing  if  the  streamlet's  tune 
15e  by  wave  or  pebble  made  ; 
But,  unresolved  of  doubt,  they  say 
Thus  it  tunes  its  pipe  alway. 

Woodward,  brave  Fancy!     Overhead 
The  sun  is  waxing  fiery  red  ; 
No  cloud  is  floating  on  the  sky 
To  interrupt  his  brilliancy, 
Or  mar  the  glory  of  his  ray  _ 
While  journeying  on  his  lucid  waj'. 
But  here,  within  this  forest  chase, 
We'll  wander  for  a  fleeting  space, 
'Mid  walks  beneath  whose  clustering  leaves 
Bright  noontides  wane  to  sober  eves  ; 
And  where,  'mong  roots  of  timbers  old, 
Pale  flowers  are  seen  like  virgins  cold — 


292  HOLLO,   MY   fancy! 

(Virgins  fearful  of  the  Sun, 

Most  beautiful  to  look  upon) — 

In  some  soft  and  mossy  nook, 

Where  dwells  the  wanderer's  eager  look. 

Until  the  Sun  hath  sunken  down 
Over  the  folly-haunting  town, 
Arid  curious  Stars  are  ibrth  to  peer 
•  With  frost-like  brilliance,  silvery  clear, 
From  the  silent  firmament — 
Here  be  our  walk  of  sweet  content. 
Around  is  many  a  sturdy  oak 
Never  scathed  by  woodman's  stroke ; 
Many  a  stalwart  green-wood  tree, 
Loved  of  AVaithman  bold  and  free. 
"When  the  arrow  at  his  side, 
And  the  bow  he  bent  with  pride, 
Gave  the  right  to  range  at  will, 
And  lift  whate'er  broad  shaft  might  kill. 
Here,  belike  famed  Kobin  Hood, 
Or  other  noble  of  the  wood, 
Clym  of  the  Clench,  or  Adam  Bell, — 
Young  Gandelyn  tiiat  siiot  full  well, — 
Will  Cloudcslic,  and  Little  John, 
Or  Bertram,  wight  of  blood  and  bone, 
Plied  their  woodcraft,  maugi-e  law : 
*    llaking  thi'ough  the  green- wood  shaw. 
Bow  in  hand,  and  swoi-d  at  knee, 
They  lived  true  thieves,  and  VVaithmen  frea 

In  the  twilight  of  this  wood — 
And,  awe-breatliing  solitude — 
Heathens  of  majestic  mind, 
Might  a  fitting  temple  find 
Underneath  some  far-spread  oak, 
Nature  blindly  to  invoke. 
What  is  groined  arch  to  this 
Mass  of  moveless  leafiness  ? 
What  are  clustered  pillars  to 
The  gnarled  trunk  of  silvery  hue. 
That,  Titan-like,  heaves  its  huge  form 


HOLLO,   MY   fancy!  293 

Througli  centuries  of  change  and  storm, 
And  stands  as  it  were  planted  there, 
Alike  for  shelter  and  for  prayer  ? 

Ilither,  my  jocund  Fancy  !  Turn, 
And  note  how  heaven's  pure  watchfires  burn 
In  yonder  fields  of  deepest  blue, 
Investing  space  with  glories  new! 
And  hark  how  in  the  bosky  dell 
Warbles  mate-robbed  Philomel ! 
Every  sound  from  that  glade  stealing 
Sadness  wooes  with  kindred  feeling — 
The  notes  of  a  love-broken  heart 
Surpass  the  dull  appeal  of  art ; 
Here  rest  awhile,  for  everywhere. 

On  lake,  lawn,  tower,  and  forest  tree, 
Falleth  in  floods  the  moonshine  fair — 

How  beautiful  night's  glories  be  ! 
No  stir  is  heard  upon  the  land, 

No  murmur  from  the  sea ; 
The  pulse  of  life  seems  at  a  stand 

As  nature  quaffeth,  rapturously, 
From  yonder  ambient  worlds  of  light, 
Deep  draughts  of  passionate  delight. 

Hollo,  my  Fancy !     It  is  well 
To  ponder  on  the  spheres  above — 
To  bid  each  fount  of  feeling  swell 
Responsive  to  the  glance  of  love. 
See  !  trooping  in  a  gladsome  row. 
How  steadfastly  these  tapers  glow  ; 
And  light  up  hill  and  darksome  glen 
To  cheer  the  path  of  wand'ring  men, 
And  eke  of  frolic  elf  and  fay 
That  haunt  the  hollow  hill,  or  play 
By  crystal  brook,  or  gleaming  lake. 
Or  (tance  until  the  green  wood  shake 
To  fits  of  choicest  minstrelsie. 
Under  the  cope  of  the  witch  elm-tree. 

When  all  is  hush  around  and  above, 


204  HOLLO,   MY   FAXCY! 

Then  is  the  hour  to  carp  of  love  ; 
When  not  an  eye  but  ours  is  waking. 
Nor  even  the  lin^htest  leaflet  shakinij — • 
When,  like  a  newly-captured  bird. 
The  fluttering  of  the  heart  is  heard  ; 
When  tears  come  to  the  eye  unbidden, 
And  blushing  cheeks  are  in  bosom  hidden  ! 
While  hand  seeks  softer  hand,  and  there 
Seems  spell-bound  by  the  amorous  air — 
AVhen  love,  in  very  silence,  finds 
The  tone  that  pleads,  the  pledge  that  binds. 

Hollo,  my  Fancy  !  Whither  bounding  ? 
Go  where  rolling  orbs  are  sounding, 
This  dull  nether  world  astounding 
With  celestial  symphonies ; 
Inhale  no  more  the  soft  replies 
Which  gurgling  rills  and  fountains  make, 

Nor  feed  upon  the  fervid  sighs 
Of  winds  that  fan  the  reedy  lake  ; 

Leave  all  terrestrial  harmonies 
That  flow  for  pining  minstrel's  sake. 

Skyward,  adventurous  Fancy  !     Dare 
To  cleave  the  ocean  of  the  air ; 
Soaring  on  thy  vane-like  wings 
Rise  o'er  earth  and  clod-like  things. 
Smite  the  rolling  clouds  that  bar 
Thy  progress  to  those  realms  afar ; 
Career  it  with  the  Sisters  seven. 
Pace  it  through  the  star-paved  heaven ; 
Snatch  Orion's  baldric, — then, 
Astride,  upon  the  Dragon,  dare 
To  hunt  the  lazy-footed  Bear 
Around  the  pole  and  back  again; 
Scourge  him  tightly,  scourge  him  faster; 
Let  the  savage  know  his  master  I 
And,  to  close  the  mighty  feat, 
Light  thy  lamp  of  brave  conceit 


love's  potencie.  294 

With  some  grim,  red-bearded  star, 
(Sign  of  Famine,  Fire,  and  War,) 
And  hang  it  on  the  young  moon's  horn 
To  show  how  poet  thought  is  born. 


LOVE'S  POTENCIE. 

If  men  were  fashioned  of  the  stone, 
Then  might  they  never  yield  to  love — 

But  fashioned  as  they  are,  they  owne 
(On  earth,  as  in  the  realme  above,) 

That  Beauty,  in  perfection,  stil 

Controls  the  thoughts,  impels  the  wil. 

And  sure  'twere  vaine  to  stemme  the  tide 
Of  passion  surging  in  the  breast — 

Since  fierce  ambition,  stubborn  pryde 
Have  each  the  sovereigne  power  confest ; 

Which  roUeth  on,  despite  all  stale. 

Sweeping  ilk  prudent  shifte  awaye. 

What  though  the  mayden  that  we  love 
May  fail  to  meet  the  troth  we  bear — 

Nor  once  its  generous  warmth  approve, 
Nor  bate  one  jot  of  our  despaire — 

Doth  not  the  blind  dictator  say — 
"  Thou  foolish  wichte  pyne  on  alwaie ! " 

We  cannot  read  the  wondrous  I'awes 

That  knit  the  soul  to  lovelinesse  ; 
We  feel  tlieir  influence,  but  their  cause 

Remains  a  theme  of  mysticknesse — 
We  only  know  Love  may  not  be 
O'ermastercd  by  Wil's  euergie. 

Nor  would  I  wish  to  break  the  dream 
Of  troubled  joy  ;  that  still  is  mine — 


296  SUPERSTITION. 

Albeit  that  the  cheerin";  gleam 

Of  hope  hath  almost  ceased  to  shine — 
So  long  as  Beauty  light  doth  give, 
My  heart  must  feel,  its  love  must  live  ! 


LIFE. 

O  Life  !   what  is   thy   quest  ? — What  owns   this 

world 
Of  stalking  shadows,  fleeting  fantasies, 
Enjoyments  substanceless — to  wed  the  mind 
To  its  still  querulous,  ever-faltering  mate — 
Or  crib  the  pinion  of  the  aspiring  soul 
(Upborne  ever  by  the  mystical) 
To  a  poor  nook  of  this  sin-stricken  earth, 
Or  sterile  point  of  time  ? — The  Universe, 
My  spirit,  is  thy  birth-right — and  thy  term 
Of  occupance,  thou  river,  limitless — 
Eternity ! 


SUPERSTITION. 

Dim  power!  by  very  indistinctness  made 
More  potent,  as  the  twilight's  shade 
Gives  magnitude  to  objects  mean  ; 
Thou  power,  though  deeply  felt,  unseen, 
That  with  thy  m3-stic,  undefined. 
And  boundless  presence,  fills  ray  mind 
With  unimaginable  fears,  and  chills 
My  aching  heart,  and  all  its  pulses  stills 
Into  a  silence  deeper  than  the  grave, 
That  erst  throbbed  quick  and  brave  ' 


SUPERSTITION.  297 

Wlierefore,  at  dead  of  night,  by  some  lone  stream, 

Dost  thou,  eniboilying  its  very  sound 

In  thy  own  substance,  seem 

To  speak  of  some  lorn  maiden,  who  hath  found 

Her  bridal  pillow  deftly  spread 

Upon  the  tall  reeds'  rustling  head, 

And  the  long  green  sedges  graceful  sweep, 

AVhere  tlie  otter  and  the  wild  drake  sleep  ? 

And  wherefore,  in  the  moonshine  clear, 

Doth  her  wan  form  appear 

For  ever  gliding  on  the  water's  breast 

As  shadowy  mist  that  hath  no  rest, 

But  wanders  idly  to  and  fro 

Whithersoe'er  the  wavering  winds  may  blow  ? 

Thou  mystic  spirit,  tell, 

Why  in  the  hollow  murmurs  of  that  bell 

Which  load  the  passing  wind, 

Each  deep  full  tone  but  echoes  to  my  mind 

The  footfall  of  the  dead— 

The  almost  voiceless,  nameless  tread, 

And  restless  stirring  to  and  fro  of  those 

To  whom  the  grave  itself  can  never  yield  repose, 

But  whose  dark,  guilty  sprites 

Wander  and  wail  with  glowworm  lights 

Within  the  circle  of  the  yew-tree's  shade, 

Until  the  gray  cock  flaps  his  wings. 

And  the  dubious  light  of  morn  upsprings 

O'er  yonder  hoar  hill's  dewy  head  ? 

And  say,  while  seated  under  this  gray  arch 

Where  old  Time  oft  in  sooth 

Hath  whet  his  pitiless  tooth. 

And  gnaweil  clean  through 

Its  ivy  and  moss-velvet  coat  of  greenest  hue, 

I  watch  the  moon's  swift  march 

Through  paths  of  heavenly  blue  : 

Methinks  that  there  are  eyes  which  gaze  on  me, 

And  jealous  spirits  breathing  near,  who  be 


298  SUPERSTITION. 

Floating  around  me,  or  in  pensive  mood 
Throned  on  some  shattcr'd  column's  ivied  head, 
Hymning  a  warning  lay  in  solitude, 
Waking  the  silent  loneness  of  the  place 
More  chilly,  deep,  and  dead, 
And  more  befitting  haunt  for  their  aerial  race  ? 

TeiTibly  lovely  power  !     I  ask  of  thee, 

Wherefore  so  lord  it  o'er  my  fantasye. 

That  in  the  forest's  moaning  sound, 

And  in  the  cascade's  far-oif  muttered  noise, 

And  in  the  breeze  of  midnight,  and  the  bound 

And  leap  of  ocean  bOlows  heard  afar, 

I  still  do  deem  these  are 

The  whispering  melodies  of  things  that  be 

Immortal,  viewless,  formless — not  of  earth, 

But  heaven  descended,  and  thus  softly 

At  midnight  minglinji  their  wild  mirth: 

Or,  when  pale  Dian  loves  to  shroud 

Her  fair  and  glittering  form,  beneath  the  veil 

Of  watery  mist  or  dusky  fire-edged  cloud, 

And  giant  shadows  sail 

"With  stately  march  athwart  the  heaven's  calm  face 

Say  then,  why  unto  me  is  given 

A  clearer  vision,  so  that  I  do  see 

Between  the  limits  of  the  earth  and  heaven 

A  bright  and  marvellous  race — 

A  goodly  shining  company — 

Flaunting  in  garments  of  unsullied  snow, 

That  ever  and  anon  do  come  and  go 

From  star  to  hill-top,  or  green  hollow  glen, 

And  so  back  again  ? 

Those  visions  straijge,  and  portents  dark  and  wild, 
That  in  fond  childhood  had  a  painful  pleasui'e, 
Have  not,  by  reason's  voice,  been  quite  exiled, 
But  still  possess  their  relish  in  full  measure  ; 
And  by  a  secret  and  coiisunnnate  art 
At  certain  times  benumb  my  awe-struck  heart— 


COME,   THOU   BRIGHT   SPIRIT!  299 

Making  it  (juail,  but  not  with  dastard  fear, 
But  strange  presentiment  and  awe  severe. 
With  curious  impertinence  to  pry 
Behind  the  veil  of  dim  futurity, 
And  that  undying  hope  that  we  may  still 
Grasp  at  the  purpose  of  the  Eternal  Will. 


YE  VERNAL  HOURS! 

Ye  vernal  hours,  glad  days  that  once  have  been  ! 
When  life  was  young,  and  hopes  were  budding 

seen ! 
When  hearts  were  blithe,  and  eyes  were  glistening 

bright. 
And  each  new  morn  awoke  to  new  delight ; 
Ye  happy  days  that  softly  passed  away 
In  boyish  frolic  and  fantastic  play ! 
Why  have  ye  fled  ?  Avhy  left  no  more  behind, 
Ye  sunbright  relics  of  my  earlier  years, 
Than  that  faint  music  which,  the  viewless  wind 
At  midnight,  to  the  lonely  wanderer  bears 
From  sighing  woods,  to  melt  him  into  tears  ? 
The  bridled  stream  by  art  may  backwards  flow, 
Youth's  fires,  once  spent,  again  shall  never  glow; 
The  flower-stalk  broke,  each  blossom  must  decay, 
And  youth,  once  past,  for  aye  hath  past  away ! 


COME,  THOU  BRIGHT  SPIRIT) 

Come,  thou  bright  spirit  of  the  skies, 
With  witching  harp  or  potent  lyre, 
And  bid  tliose  magic  notes  arise 
That  kindle  souls,  and  tip  with  fire 


300  COME,   THOU    BRIGHT   SPIRIT  I 

The  prophet's  lips.     Benin  the  strain, 

That  like  the  trumpet's  stirring  sound 

Makes  the  lone  heart  to  bound 

From  death-like  lethargy  to  life  again. 

Bracing  the  slackened  nerve  and  limb, 

And  calling  from  the  eye,  all  sunk  and  dim, 

Unwonted  fire  and  noble  darino-; 

Or  wake  that  soothing  melody 

That  stills  the  tumults  of  the  heart  despairing, 

"With  all  its  many  murmurlnirs  small, 

Of  soft  and  liquid  sounds  that  be 

Like  to  the  music  of  a  water-fall, 

Heard  from  the  farthest   depths   of  some  green 

wood. 
In  quiet  moonlit  night,  that  stills  the  mood  ' 
Of  painful  thought,  and  fills  the  soul 
AVith  pleasant  musings,  such  as  childhood  knows 
AVhen  basking  on  some  green-wood  shady  knoll. 
And  weaving  garlands  with  the  drooping  boughs. 
Or  dost  thou  sing  of  woman — of  the  eye 
That  pierces  through  the  heart,  and  wrays 
Its  own  fond  secrets  by  a  sympathy 
That  scorns  slow  words  and  idle  phrase? 
Or  of  the  lips  that  utter  wondrous  love, 
And  yet  do  scarcely  move 
Their  ruby  portals  to  emit  a  sound. 
Or  syllable  a  name,  but  round  and  round 
Irradiate  themselves  with  pensive  smiles  ? 
Or  of  the  bosom,  stranger  to  the  wiles 
And  thoughts  of  worthless  worldlings,  which  doth 

swell 
"With  soft  emotion  underneath  its  cover. 
And  speaks  unto  the  keen-eyed  conscious  lover 
Thoughts,  feelings,  s3-mpathies,  tonjiue  ne'er  could 

tell? 
Sing'st  thou  of  arms — of  glory  in  the  field — 
Where  patriots  meet  in  death's  embrace. 
To  reap  hi^ili  honors  where  the  clanging  shield 
And  gleaming  spear — the  swayful  ponderous  mace, 


THE   RITTERS   RIDE   FORTH.  301 

And  the  shrill  trumpet  lings  aloud  its  peal 
Of  martial  music  furious  and  strong ; 
Where  ardent  souls  together  throng 
And  struggle  in  the  press  of  griding  steel, 
And  fearful  shout  and  battle  cry, 
Herald  the  quivering  spirit's  sigh, 
That  leaves  the  strife  in  agony. 
And  as  it  fleets  away,  still  throws 
Its  stern  defiance  on  its  conquering  foes, 
Shrieking  in  wrath,  not  fear  ? 


LAYS  OF  THE  LANG  BEIN  RITTERS. 

Among  the  ungamered  Poems  left  by  the  late  Mr. 
Motherwell,  I  have  found  certain  wild,  romantic,  and  mel- 
ancholy measures,  fittmgly  enshrined  in  a  story  of  Teu- 
tonic spirit  and  coloring,  entitled,  "  The  Doomed  Nine,  or 
the  Lang  Beiu  Ritters."  To  publish  the  prose  narrative 
lies  not  within  the  purpose  of  this  selection — but  the 
songs,  which  conveyed  to  us  a  very  singular  pleasure  in 
days  endeared  to  memory  by  the  delights  of  friendship, 
may  not  inaptly  form  the  concluding  strains  of  a  volume 
whose  general  aspect  accords  well  (too  well)  with  the 
Poet's  cast  of  thought  and  premature  departure. — K. 


THE  RITTERS  RIDE  FORTH. 

"  On  the  eastern  bank  of  the  noble  Rhine  stood  a  lofty 
tower,  named  the  Ritterberg;  and,  m  the  pleasant  simple 
davs  of  which  we  speak,  it  was  held  by  nine  tall  knights, 
men  of  huge  stature  and  prodigious  strength,  whose  prin- 
cipal amusement  was  knocking  off  the  heads  of  the 
unfortunate  serfs  who  inhabited  the  fruitful  valleys  cir- 
cumjacent to  their  stronghold.  They  madly  galloped 
over  meadow  and  mountain,  through  firth  and  forest, 
blowing  their  large  crooked  hunting  horns,  and  ever  and 
anon  uplifting  their  stormy  voices  in  song." — JIothek- 

WELL. 

O  BEAUTIFUL  valley, 
"We  scar  not  thy  bosom ; 


302  JLAY   OF   THE   BROKEN-HEARTED 

O  bright  gleaniing  lake,  we 

Disturb  not  thy  slumber; 

O  tall  hill,  whose  gray  head 

Is  weeping  in  heaven, 

We  come  not  to  pierce  thro' 

Thy  dim  holy  chambers^- 

We  see  thee  and  love  thee, 

And  never  will  mar  thee  : — 

O  beautiful  valley, 

Bright  lake,  and  tall  mountain, 

The  Ritters  ride  forth ! 

Churls  scratch,  with  the  base  share, 

The  flower-girdled  valley ; 

And  sheer  with  the  sharp  keel, 

The  dream-loving  billow ; 

They  pierce  to  the  heart  of 

The  grand  giant  mountain, 

And  fling  on  the  fierce  flame 

His  pale  yellow  life-strings. 

We  come  to  avenge  thee, 

To  slay  the  destroyer. 

O  beautiful  valley. 

Bright  lake,  and  tall  mountain, 

The  Ritters  ride  forth  ! 


LAY   OF   THE    BROKEN-HEARTED   AND 
HOPE-BEREAVED  MEN. 

"  Some  of  those  who  had  been  bereaved  by  these  merci- 
less marauders,  and  would  not  be  comforted,  then  paced 
towards  the  hills,  and  looked  back  on  the  scenes  of  their 
youth.  Tliey  sang  with  melancholy  scorn  and  embitter- 
ed passion,  this  querulous  ditty,  which  later  generations 
have  remembered  as  the  '  Lay  of  the  Broken-hearted  and 
Hope-bereaved  men,'  who  went  up  to  the  hollowed  moun- 
tain, where  they  shut  themselves  up  in  a  cavern,  building 


AND   HOPE-BEREAVED   MEN.  303 

np  its  mouth  strongly  with  huge  stones;  and  there,  in 
sunlessness  and  unavailing  sorrow,  these  broken-hearted 
ones  died." — Motherwell. 


The  rude  and  the  reckless  wind, 

ruthlessly  strips 
The  leaf  that  last  lingered  on 

old  forest  tree ; 
The  widowed  branch  walls  for 

the  love  it  has  lost ; 
The  parted  leaf  pines  for 

its  glories  foregone 
Now  sereing,  in  sadness,  and 

quite  broken-hearted, 
It  mutters  mild  music,  and 

swan-like  on-fleeteth 
A  burden  of  melody, 

musing  of  death, 
To  some  desert  spot  where, 

unknown  and  unnoted, 
Its  woes  and  its  wanderings  may 

both  find  a  tomb, 
Far,  far  from  the  land  where 

it  grew  in  its  gladness, 
And  hung  from  its  brave  branch, 

freshly  and  green, 
Bathed  in  blithe  dews  and 

soft  shimmering  in  sunshine, 
From  mom  until  even-tide, 

a  beautiful  joy  1 


804  DREAM    OF   life's   EARLY   DAY, 


DREAM   OF  LIFE'S   EARLY   DAY,  FARE- 
WELL  FOREVER. 

"  Others  of  the  '  Broken-hearted  and  Hope-bereaved 
men,'  as  they  went  on  their  way,  poured  forth  these 
melancholy  measures." — Mothekwell. 

Bright  mornings !  of  beauty  and  bloom,  that,  in 

boyhood. 
Gleamed  gay  with  the  visionings  glorious  of  glad 

hope ; 
Dear  days !  that  discoursed  of  dehghts  never-dy- 

And  painted  each  pastime  with  tints  of  pure  pleas- 
ure ; 

Bright  days,  when  the  heart  leapt  like  kid  o'er  the 
mountain, 

And  gazed  on  the  fair  fields — one  full  fount  of  feel- 
ing — 

When  wood  and  when  water,  flower,  blossom,  and 
small  leaf, 

Were  robed  in  a  sunshine  that  seemed  everlasting ; 

Ye  were  but  a  dream,  and  like  dream  have  depart- 
ed ! 
Oh !  Dream  of  Life's  early  day,  farewell  for- 
ever. 

As  the  pale  cloud  that  circled  in  morning  the  hill- 
top, 

Flitteth,  m  fleecy  wreaths,  fast  in  the  sun-blaze ; 

Or,  as  the  slim  shadows  steal  silently  over 

The  gray  walls  at  noon-tide,  so  ghost-like  on-glid- 
ing. 

And  leave  not  a  line  for  remembrance  to  linger 

on ; 
So  soon  and  so  sadly  have  terribly  perished 
The  joys  we  did  muse  of  in  youth's  mildest  morn  ; 


FAREWELL    FOREVER.  305 

Time  spreads  o'er  the  brow  soon  his  pale  sheaf  of 
sorrow, 

And  freezes  each  heart-fount  that  whilom  gushed 
freely ; 
Oh  !    Dream  of  Life's  early  "day,  farewell  for- 
ever. 

The  woods  and  the  waters,  the   great  winds  of 
heaven, 

Sound  on  and  forever  their  grand  solemn  sympho- 
nies ; 

The  moon  gleams  with  gladness, — the  wakeful  stars 
wander. 

With  bright  eyes  of  beauty,  that  ever  beam  pleas- 
ure ; 

The  sun  scatters  golden  fire — bright  rays  of  glorj' — 

Till  proud  glows  the  earth,  graithed  in  haa-ness  from 
heaven  ; 

The  fields  flourish  fi-agrant  with   summer    flower 
blossoms  ; 

Time   robs   not  the   earth  of  Its    brightness    and 
braveries, 

But  he  strips  the  lorn  heart  of  the  loves  that  It 
lived  by. 
Oh !    Dream  of  Life's   early  day,   farewell  for- 
ever. 

We  have  sought  for  the  smiles  that  shed  sunshine 
around  us, 

For  the  voices  that  mingled  mind-music  with  ours ; 

For  hearts  whose  roots  grew  where  the  roots  of 
our  own  grew, 

AVhile  pulse  sang  to  pulse  the   same  lay  of  love- 
longinor. 

In  the  fair  forest  firth,  on  the  wide  waste  of  waters, 

By  brooks  that  gleam  brightest,  and  banks  that 
blush  bravest, 

On  hill  and  in  hollow,  green  holm,  and  broad  mead- 
ow. 

20 


806  THE   HITTERS   RIDE    HOME. 

We  have  sou.2lit  for  these  loved  things,  but  nevei 
could  find  them, 

We  have  shouted  their  names,  and  sad  echoes  made 
answer. 
Oh !  Dream  of  Life's  early   day,  farewell  for- 
ever. 


THE  RITTERS   RIDE   HOME. 

As  eagles  return  to  their  eyrie, 
Gorged  with  the  flesh  of  the  young  kid, 
Even  so  we  return  from  the  battle — 
The  banquet  of  noble  blood. 
We  are  drunk  with  that  ruddy  wine  ; 
AVe  are  stained  with  its  droppings  all  overj 
We  have  drunk  till  our  full  veins  are  bursting. 
Till  the  vessel  was  drained  to  its  dregs — 
Till  the  tall  flagons  fell  from  our  hands, 
That  were  wearied  with  ever  uplifting  them : 
We  have  drank  till  we  no  longer  could  find 
The  licjuor  divine  of  heroes. 
The  Ritters  ride  home  ! 

Ask  where  great  glory  is  won  V 
Inquire  of  the  desolate  land  ; 
Of  the  city  that  hath  no  life, 
Of  the  bay  that  hath  no  white  sail. 
The  land  "that  is  trenched  with  mad  feet, 
Which  turned  up  the  soil  in  despair; 
The  city  is  silent  and  fireless. 
And  each  threshold  is  crowded  with  dry  bones ; 
The  bay  glitters  sheenly  in  sunlight. 
No  oar  shivers  now  its  clear  mirror; 
The  mast  of  the  bark  is  not  there. 
Nor  the  shout  of  the  mariner  bold. 


THE   RITTERS   RIDE    HOME.  307 

But  the  sea-maidens  know  of  strange  men, 
Beclasped  in  strong  plaits  of  iron  : 
They  know  of  the  pale-faced  and  silent, 
Who  sleep  underneath  the  waves, 
And  never  shall  waken  again 
To  stride  o'er  the  beautiful  dales, 
The  green  and  the  flower-studded  land.     . 
The  Ritters  ride  home  ! 

We  have  come  from  the  strife  of  shields ; 
From  the  bristling  of  mighty  spears ; 
From  the  smith-shop,  where  brynies  were  anvila, 
And  the  hammers  were  long  swords  and  axes. 
We  have  come  from  the  mounds  of  the  dead, 
Where  hero  forms  lay  like  hewn  forests  ; 
Where  rivers  run  red  in  the  sun, 
And  the  ravens  of  heaven  were  made  glad  ! 
The  Ritters  ride  home  ! 

The  small  ones  of  earth  pass  away. 
As  chaff  they  have  drifted  and  gone. 
When  the  angry  winds  rush  from  the  North, 
And  sound  their  great  trumpets  of  wrath, 
The  tempest-steeds  rush  forth  to  battle, 
They  plough  up  the  eartli  in  their  course, 
They  hollow  a  grave  for  the  dead, 
As  the  share  scoops  a  bed  for  the  seed. 
The  Ritters  ride  home  ! 

Beautiful !  beautiful !  beautiful  ! 
Is  the  home-coming  of  the  War-faring ; 
Of  them  who  have  swam  on  the  ocean  ; 
Of  fountains  that  spring  from  great  hearts. 
The  sunsliine  of  glory's  around  them ; 
Their  names  are  the  burthen  of  songs 
Their  armor  and  banners  become 
The  richest  adornments  of  halls. 
The  Rittei's  ride  home  1 


808  THE   RITTER8   RIDE   HOME. 

Beautiful !  beautLful !  beautiful ! 
Sounds  the  home-coininfj  of  the  War-farina 
And  their  triumph-song  echoes  forever 
"Mid  the  vastness  of  gloomy  Valhalla. 
The  Ritters'  last  home  I 


THE  KSV. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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